


the kids aren't all right

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: hold on to me, 'cause i'm a little unsteady (ws!obi-wan au) [2]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (technically??), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Force Ghosts, Gen, Kid Fic, On the Run, Pre-OT3, Winter Soldier AU, padmé doesn't die in childbirth that's important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7011835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“He dragged me up a hill so I wouldn’t burn to death,” says Anakin. “Obi-wan’s still in there, I know it. I’m going to save him.”</i>
</p><p>or: it takes a year to go from Mustafar to Tattooine. this is what happens in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i still feel that rush in my veins

**Author's Note:**

> titles are from from Fall Out Boy's "The Kids Aren't Alright".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for suicidal ideation in this chapter. it's not followed through, but it's there. also, childbirth--it's not graphic, but it's happening.

Padmé’s water breaks while they’re in hyperspace.

Of course it did, Anakin will think later, once the surgery’s done and the very nice drugs have worn off. It’s not enough that he’s down to zero natural limbs now and that the Republic has been turned into the Empire, it’s not enough that Obi-wan’s missing, it’s not enough that the Jedi Order’s been slaughtered, Padmé’s water just _had_ to break, as a final topping of shit on the crap day they’ve had.

Right now, though, he’s a bit too in pain to actually register all of that. His limbs still feel as if they’ve been set on fire despite not actually being there anymore, and he’s probably going to hack up a lung at this rate.

 _Fucking_ Mustafar. He never wants to go there again.

He grips on to a handle with his only hand and tries very, very hard not to start screaming. No wonder he passed out before Obi-wan pulled him up the hill. Now that the shock’s worn off, the pain’s set in, and Force help him, this is--this is a lot worse, he thinks, than the time Dooku cut his arm off.

The ship drops out of hyperspace. He knows because he nearly lurches off the bed, and who the hell’s piloting this ship? He knows Ahsoka and Padmé wouldn’t be so clumsy--

“Sithspit,” Ahsoka’s saying, and Anakin blinks up at her, “Anakin, I am _so_ sorry about that but--Padmé’s water broke.”

“Oh,” says Anakin, then, “oh, _fuck_.”

\--

All in all, Padmé’s much more relaxed about the whole thing than she really ought to be, considering she’s going into _labor_ and all. Ahsoka’s kind of impressed, somewhere underneath the incredible worry she’s been feeling since Anakin got loaded onto a stretcher and Padmé got helped into a wheelchair to be wheeled off somewhere far away from her husband.

“I’ll be fine,” says Padmé, when Ahsoka drops by. She’s reading a holopad that Bail Organa must’ve left at her side, strangely calm despite, you know, the fact that she’s going to be giving birth shortly, and that she’s kind of--gushing, down there. “Contractions won’t start for a few more hours at least.”

“You’re sure?” Ahsoka asks, anxiously.

“I’m sure,” says Padmé, waving her hand. “Go, talk to Anakin before he can annoy someone into a rage.”

“We haven’t been here that long,” says Ahsoka, with a small chuckle.

“Under the circumstances,” says Padmé, “I kind of doubt it’ll take him very long.”

\--

Anakin says, his voice a slight rasp, “I’m fine, Snips, but what about Padmé? She’s okay, right? She’s safe?”

“Of course she’s safe,” says Ahsoka, sitting down next to her former master. “She says the contractions aren’t going to start for a few more hours at least.” She looks at the stumps of his limbs, and guilt and horror stab through her stomach like blaster bolts. If she hadn’t come by in time--

“Ahsoka?”

She shakes her head. “How did this happen?” she asks. “I was there for the funeral. Why would Master Obi-wan come back as--as a _Sith_ , of all things?”

“He wouldn’t,” says Anakin. “Not by choice.” His lone hand clenches into a fist, then, and Ahsoka finds herself wishing she had that confidence, that blind faith Anakin seems to have in spades. “They must’ve taken that choice away from him,” he says.

“How do you know that?” she asks.

“I just do,” says Anakin. _I have to,_ he doesn’t say, but it hangs in the air between them all the same.

“I wish I had that confidence,” she tells him. “But I don’t know if there’s anything left of him in there. He did chop off all of your natural limbs.”

“And then he dragged me up a hill so I wouldn’t burn to death,” says Anakin. “Obi-wan’s still in there, I know it. I’m going to save him.”

Ahsoka stares at him, thinks of the horribly broken look in his eyes when she sat with him outside the funeral. If it had been Anakin in Obi-wan’s place, she wonders, would she be just as adamant she could somehow pull him back?

How far would she have gone?

“I’m going with you,” she says. “And Padmé.”

“What, really?” asks Anakin.

“Well,” says Ahsoka, with a shrug, “someone’s got to be the babysitter.”

Anakin states at her, his face scrunched up, before he says, “I really hope you’re talking about the actual baby.”

“Of course I am,” says Ahsoka, with as much fake innocence as she can muster. “I mean, I certainly can’t be including _you_ in that count.”

\--

Two or three systems away, a former apprentice watches the remains of his tracking chip float away with the rest of the garbage, and exhales his first breath as a free man in over a year.

He needs to get rid of this ship. It’s very obviously stolen, having first belonged to one of the late Separatist leaders who used it _everywhere_ , and he has no doubt the Empire will be looking for it when they realize they can’t track him anymore, when they realize he took a ship and ran.

Good riddance, he thinks, he’s never liked flying anyway.

(Bright blue eyes, a huff of breath, _we crashed the ship your way_ \--)

A flash. A sign he’s gone without a wipe too long, he realizes quickly, and he has to shut his eyes against the sudden phantom ache pounding in his temples, the dread tying his stomach into knots.

There’s nobody here but him, and if he plays this right, Sidious won’t ever find him. And he _has_ to play this right. If he doesn’t--

\--he has to.

He puts a course in--a mostly forest planet in the Outer Rim, with small pockets of civilization here and there. The name of it slips his mind, but he could almost swear he knows it. Like he could almost swear that he’d known Anakin Skywalker, a long, long time ago.

( _Take my hand_ \--)

He shakes his head. He can deal with these flashes later. First he has to make sure the incision in his side won’t fester--he’s not going to die of an infection, not when he’s out at last--then he has to take stock of his supplies, what few he can take with him.

He stands up and moves to the med-kit, starts to rummage one-handed through his supplies, one hand pressing down on the bandage over his wound. Soon enough he’s found enough rations to keep him going for a few days, enough medical supplies to fix up minor injuries and to clean and disinfect the incision in his side, just enough credits to buy a ship, and--

\--he turns the blaster over in his hand, fingers unused to the grip and the strangely heavy weight. He doesn’t have to check to know there’s only one shot left in it.

The Empire will keep looking for him, he knows that. They can’t have him again, not ever. And--it would be painless, he thinks. Quicker than he deserves.

He shakes his head and puts the blaster away.

He isn’t that desperate yet. There are still ways to deny the Emperor his weapon without resorting to drastic measures, no matter how much a private little part of him might welcome it.

First things first.

He needs to clean that incision. Then he needs to dump this ship and find himself another one.

\--

He lands in a clearing just ten miles out from the nearest village. It’s a tricky enough landing to make even with a light, unnoticeable ship, he’s surprised he even managed to land the heavy, ludicrously expensive ship with most parts still attached, even with the noise, and even with it tipping over with all the grace of a dying bantha.

Fuck flying.

He manages to make his way out, cutting and kicking out a hole in the doors when he realizes they’re too damaged to open properly, and blinks at the young Twi’lek aiming a blaster at him, her eyes narrowed and her calloused hands steady.

“Who are you?” she demands.

 _You tell me,_ he thinks. “Not here to hurt you,” he says, his voice strangely hoarse from, perhaps, all that time spent in silence, holding his hands up and trying to rein in the dark presence he’s probably exuding.

The Twi’lek woman lowers her blaster and squints at him. “What’re you doing with your eyes?” she asks.

He blinks. “What?” he asks.

“That thing,” she says, waving her hand over her eyes, “that you’re doing right now. They’re not yellow anymore--oh, there it is again.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well.” He looks back at the ship. “Do you know anyone who might want a ship?”

“I do,” she says. “I’ve got a shop, I do ship parts. I’d have to do some repairs on some of them once they’re disassembled, but I think I could get it up to scratch.” She looks at the ship, greed clear in her eyes. Good, he thinks, he can use that. “But I usually know who I’m doing business with, sir,” she adds, cocking her head to the side.

“I think it’s best for you if you never saw me,” he says.

“Oh,” she says, catching on, “you’re on the run. Aren’t you?”

“I--suppose I am, yes,” he says.

The woman whistles. “Damn,” she says, “no wonder you look like some moof-milker chewed you up and spat you out, man.” She holsters her blaster and says, “I’ll cut you a deal. How much money you got on you?”

“I don’t have much,” he says--it's true enough, he just doesn't mention the fact that he essentially stole all of it. Neither Dooku nor Palpatine had ever thought their weapon would need _money_ to get around, considering all his needs were provided for.

( _Barely,_ some part of him--the part that often resurfaces first when he’s been gone too long, the part given to sarcasm--supplies.)

“Oh, bantha shit, you stole that ship,” she says, dawning horror creeping into her tone.

“To be fair,” he says, trying very hard to be reassuring, “the owner was deceased by the time I found it.” He should know, he’d taken the man’s head off on Mustafar. “You’re not going to get a better deal anywhere,” he adds, a small amount of Force behind his words to sway her greed.

The woman lets out a long breath. “Maker’s balls, this is such a bad idea, Carve’s going to kill me,” she mutters. “Okay. Mother’s tits, okay. I’ll take your ship as payment, just help me take it apart.” She glances at the deactivated lightsaber in his hand, and says, “I don’t want to ask, do I?”

“Best not,” he says, clipping the lightsaber to his belt.

“Still, I gotta call you something,” she says, as he walks up to join her. “I can’t just say, _hey, random stranger human_.”

 _Obi-wan,_ he doesn’t say. He doesn’t say the other name, either, the one Dooku and Sidious so graciously “gave” him, doesn’t even want to think it.

Somewhere in the depths of his ruined memory, a soft smile, a lilting voice, whispers a name.

“Ben,” he says. “Just Ben.”

“All right, _just Ben_ ,” says the woman. “I’m Maran. As you can see, I’m too small to carry some of the shit you’re going to be dumping on me, so what you’re gonna do is help me carry your ship, part by part, back into town.”

“I can do that,” he says.

\--

(This is what it’s like to be Ahsoka Tano, right now:

You are tired.

Not really an old feeling, that. You’ve been running yourself ragged since Mustafar, since you landed on the hill and saw your former master’s unconscious, maimed form leaning against a rock. You’ve been tired, you think, since the clones--your friends, your comrades, your trusted allies--turned their blasters on you, since Rex took his helmet off and put his weapon down and said, _I’m here to rescue you_ and you knew he meant it.

You’ve been tired since even before that, perhaps since you left the Jedi Order with wings to fly with and thought, _well, Tano, what now_ to yourself. It’s just manifesting itself now.

But you can’t be tired, not right now. You can hear Padmé screaming in one room, and Anakin’s cursing up and down in Huttese in another, and you have to check on both of them and--

“Ahsoka,” says Senator Bail Organa, snapping you out of your reverie, “haven’t you rested?”

“I napped!” you say. It isn’t a lie, you did shut your eyes for a few minutes, before Padmé’s labor started.

“A brief nap nearly twelve hours ago doesn’t mean you _rested_ ,” says Senator Organa.

“It does,” you say. You’ve had plenty of naps before, in between battles. It’s always kept the exhaustion at bay before. “Senator, I can’t--I can’t just rest. Not when Anakin and Padmé might need me.”

“They don’t,” says Organa. “Or--I suppose General Skywalker might ask for you, but I think he’s a bit occupied with surgery right now.”

A noise drifts out of the room Anakin’s been in for the past day or so. You recognize it immediately as his voice, and you recognize the words as Huttese. You heave a sigh--some things don’t change.

“But I have to check on them,” you say.

“They’ll be fine,” says Organa.

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” you snap, the words lashing out of your mouth before you can think any better of them. Organa blinks at you in surprise, and suddenly shame burns hot in the pit of your stomach. You’re better than that, you know that. “Sorry,” you mumble, leaning back in your chair, “it’s just--it’s been a long day.”

“So rest,” says Organa. “I’ll keep watch over Padmé and her--her husband for you.” He huffs out a breath, says, “Strange thing to say, but then again, these are strange times we live in.”

“You’re telling me,” you say. Exhaustion is seeping into your limbs again, into your very bones, but you have to keep awake, because what if something goes wrong during the surgery or the labor, what if the Empire figures out you’re all on Alderaan, what if someone in the center is a traitor, what if--

“Rest,” says Organa, sitting down next to you and offering his shoulder. You’re leaning on him before you know it, and his shoulder--while it jabs into your cheek a bit--is much more comfortable than the cold, hard ground. “You’ve done enough,” he says.

“Have to check,” you say.

“I’ll do it for you,” Organa says. “Besides, I don’t think you want to get your hand broken by Padmé right now.”

You chuckle, and close your eyes. You’ll just rest them for a few seconds, no problem with that, then you’ll be back on guard.

When you open them again, you’re on a bed, a soft pillow under your head.)

\--

Luke emerges first, wailing from the very first second. Years from now, Bail will joke that he knew Luke was Anakin’s boy from the moment he opened his mouth to scream.

Leia comes next, and she’s a perfectly quiet baby up until someone else tries to hold her. Then she starts crying too, and that sets off Luke _again_.

Definitely her and Anakin’s children, Padmé thinks, wanting their voices to be heard from the very start. Ordinarily she’d be up for it, but, well.

“Congratulations,” says Bail to Padmé, who’s squinting tiredly up at her two children. They’re so _small_. So _fragile_ , like spun glass. So _loud_. “You have a boy _and_ a girl.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, dazed. “So I suppose Anakin and I owe each other some apologies.”

Then she passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering why Maran seems so familiar, she - and at least one of the people who'll pop up next chapter - is actually an AU version of someone in Dragon Age 2. in Maran's case, she's p much purple!Marian Hawke, except a Twi'lek mechanic with no bigger responsibility than a shop.


	2. as the crooked smiles fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's going to be _at least_ another chapter after this, if not two. jfc, this quartet is going to kill me.

“Maran,” says Carve, a big, burly human much taller than Maran, hair cropped short to his skull, “could you _please_ stop picking up strays?”

“Oh, no,” Maran chirps, helping the-- _Ben_ , for now he has to think of himself as Ben even if the name feels wrong, carry his stolen ship’s parts and cargo to her shop. “Ben here’s not going to stick around, he’s on the run.”

“You and your bleeding heart are going to kill us one of these days,” says Carve, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seriously, sister.”

“If it wasn’t for my bleeding heart,” Maran shoots back, “you and Mers wouldn’t have ever crossed paths, so really, it always works out.” She nods to an empty space near a twisted and slightly bent table, and says, “Help me set this down there, Ben.”

“Certainly,” he says, and gingerly they set the accelerator down. “You need not worry,” he says, “I’ll be out of your hair just as soon as the ship’s disassembled and I have a new one.”

“A _what_?” Carve says, before he whips around to his--adopted sister, Ben figures. They bicker like siblings, though they look nothing alike. “Maran, what did you promise him?!”

“I said I’d help!” she says.

“As I recall,” says Ben, “I asked if anyone might want a ship, you said yes. I didn’t ask if you had one.” He narrows his eyes and says, “Perhaps I should’ve.”

“Bethie took it, last time she came around,” says Maran. “But I don’t know if she’s still alive. Maker, I hope she is.”

“Bethie?”

“My twin sister,” says Carve. “She’s--She _was_ a Jedi.”

“She _is_ a Jedi,” Maran snaps, whirling on her brother.

“Do you think anyone could’ve survived the assault on the Jedi Temple?” Carve snarls back, stepping into her space. “Beth’s a good Jedi, but she isn’t _invincible_ , and even if she survived the Temple she would still have had to outrun a _thousand_ highly-trained clones and then survive every single fucking sentient in the galaxy out for her blood!”

“So, what, you’re just going to give her up for dead? You, _her own brother_ , are just going to let her go, just like that?” Maran asks, before her gaze slides away from her brother. “Ben?”

(The smell of burning flesh, the light fading from the young woman’s storm-grey eyes, the sick sizzling sound the lightsaber made when he slid it out of her stomach, the rank stench of death and the sound of bodies falling--)

“Ben?”

He blinks.

When did he end up lying on someone’s couch?

“Ben, are you all right?”

Ben, who’s--him. He’s Ben, at least for now. And the Twi’lek woman leaning over him with her lekku swinging, concern in her green eyes, is Maran, and the man leaning against the doorway with a furrowed brow and crossed arms, squinting suspiciously at him, is her adopted brother Carve.

“I’m--fine,” Ben says.

“Do you know what happened to Beth?” Carve asks, bluntly.

“Carve!” Maran snaps, head whipping around and head-tails flying. “The man just fainted--”

“No, he can ask,” says Ben, pulling himself up to a sitting position. “I can’t guarantee I’ll answer, though. My memory is--not the best.”

“Great, we’re dealing with a runaway soldier with memory problems,” Carve grumbles, and Ben reins in a huff of slightly hysterical laughter. It’s an accurate enough assessment, after all. “You have such a great taste in strays, Maran.”

“You were there,” says Maran, quietly, “when the Order fell. Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he says, thinking of the stench of death.

“No wonder you’ve got memory problems,” she says. “And you look like shit, and you’ve got a lightsaber.”

“As you say,” he says, blankly. What else is there to say, he wonders, without giving away his role in Order 66.

“You could stay if you want,” she says.

“Maran!” Carve shouts.

“I can’t,” Ben says, caught off his guard by the offer. When was the last time someone looked at him and decided to be kind, looked at him and saw someone worth saving?

(Blue eyes, a broken plea, _Obi-wan, it’s me, I’m your_ \--)

“Ben--” Maran starts.

“I could hurt you,” he says, remembering Mustafar, Anakin Skywalker’s unconscious weight in his arms. “No, it’s best if--if I was never here. That was our deal.”

Maran lets out a long breath, and nods her head. “All right,” she says, “all right. I’ll hold to the deal. I’ll find you a ship.”

Ben slumps back onto the couch, and lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you,” he says. “When will I have it?”

Maran glances at Carve, who sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You _know_ Bells and Marvic like you better than they like me,” he says.

“Bells flirts with you!” Maran says, flailing her hand out at him in an almost comical fashion.

“Bells flirts with everybody,” says Carve, massaging his temples. “She flirts with you the _most_ , though, you’re just too dense to see it, sis.”

“Marvic likes you,” says Maran, a little weaker.

“Nah, Marvic tolerates me because I’m your brother,” says Carve, with no small amount of bitterness. “He likes _you_ better. You’re attached at the hip, both of you. Much more attached than you are to me, anyway, but hey, it’s not like we’re _really_ siblings.”

“ _Carve_ ,” Maran snaps.

“Bells and who?” Ben asks.

“Oh, right,” says Maran. “They’re your best bets for finding a ship.” She smiles then, and says, “And they always find the fastest ships. Good for someone, I think, who’d love to keep going for a while.”

She stands up, and says, “I hear Rizel’s nice and quiet, this time of year.”

\--

It takes a whole day after his surgery before Anakin is allowed to see his children, and even then--because he can’t get out of bed just yet--Ahsoka’s the one holding them instead of him.

Oh, Force.

He has _children_.

They’re so _tiny_.

“Luke’s got your nose,” says Ahsoka, snapping Anakin out of his slightly stunned reverie. The twins are asleep, clearly just as exhausted as Anakin feels. He hadn’t known even babies got tired from the labor--you learn something new every day, he supposes. “And both he and Leia got your lungs. You should’ve heard him screaming.”

“I resent that implication,” Anakin tells her. “Padmé’s as loud as I am.”

“I did not ever need to know that,” says Ahsoka, making a face. “Anyway, congratulations, you’re a dad now!”

“And you’re an aunt,” says Anakin, reaching out unthinkingly with his right hand to tuck a strand of fine hair behind his daughter’s ear.

Her eyes snap open at the touch of cold metal, and she gives an impressive wail. A second later, her twin wakes as well, and starts up his own wail.

“Ugh, I have got to work on temperature control,” he says, clapping both hands over his ears. He can see what Ahsoka means about Leia and Luke inheriting his lungs. “Whaddaya think, Snips?”

“I think,” says Ahsoka, with a resigned sigh, “that whatever keeps them _not crying_ is a good thing.” She adjusts her hold on them, says, “Shh, shh, c’mon, babies, it’s okay, that’s just your dad, shh--”

Anakin pulls himself up to a more vertical position, swings his new legs over the edge of his bed. “Hey,” he says, “could I?”

“You can’t hold them yet,” says Ahsoka.

“I didn’t say I was going to,” says Anakin, patting the space next to him. “Just--move closer. Let me talk to them.”

“All right,” says Ahsoka, sitting down next to him. She adjusts her hold on the two children, so that Leia’s closest to him, sniffling still.

“Hey,” says Anakin, leaning in close. “Hey, Leia. Hey, Luke. I’m your father.” He reaches out with his right hand again, this time a little more tentative.

Luke bats at his hand, clearly curious about this cold metal thing within reach of his chubby arms. Anakin’s pretty sure he’s smiling up at him, though that’s--probably just wishful thinking.

“Hi,” he says, and breathes out a sigh of wonder, glancing up at Ahsoka.

“They’re adorable,” she says.

“Damn straight they are,” says Anakin, pride blooming in his chest, spreading into his lungs. _And I’d do anything for them,_ he thinks, just as Leia bats a tiny fist at her father’s hand.

“And I’m their aunt,” says Ahsoka, her mouth slowly turning up in a disbelieving smile.

Anakin pauses for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, you are,” he says, grinning as well. “Auntie Snips. It’s got a ring to it.” For a moment he wonders if Obi-wan would agree to being their uncle, before he remembers that Obi-wan’s--somewhere.

(Sith-yellow eyes behind a black mask, blood-red lightsaber clashing against blue, _no, I don’t_ \--)

“You’re still hell-bent on finding him?” Ahsoka asks.

“Yeah,” says Anakin. “I have to. We’ve gone over this.”

“And I’m still coming,” says Ahsoka. “Look what happened when I didn’t.”

“It’s not your fault,” Anakin starts.

“I know it wasn’t,” says Ahsoka. “Not this one, at least. Neither of us saw any of this coming.”

“Some Jedi, huh?” Anakin says, weakly.

Ahsoka smiles, but it’s a pale imitation of the real thing. For some odd reason, Anakin thinks, suddenly, of how old she must be right now--sixteen? Nearing seventeen? Yet here she is, with a lifetime’s worth of hurts.

Some of them the hurts _he_ gave her.

“I’m not a Jedi anymore,” she says, quiet.

“Honestly, Snips,” says Anakin, “I don’t think anyone is, anymore.” Not if they want to survive for longer than a few days, when they get off Alderaan. It hurts to admit, because the Jedi Order has been part of Anakin’s life since he was nine, for all the frustrations it caused him. And now it’s just--gone.

How many of them are left, he wonders.

He’s not sure he wants to know.

\--

“This is probably a bad time to talk about this,” says Bail, after Padmé’s woken reluctantly up from a very nice long sleep, “but Senator Mothma contacted me a few hours ago.”

Padmé blinks blearily at him.

“You’re right, this is a _very_ bad time,” she says, then reaches out for the datapad in his hands. “Give me the pad, I need to see for myself.”

She takes it from Bail’s unresisting fingers, leans back onto her pillows as she taps on the newest message, sent just hours ago. Mon Mothma’s figure flickers to life, just above the pad, washed out in hologram-blue.

“Senator Amidala,” says Mothma, her tone and her bearing regal despite the obvious exhaustion written all over her face, “I regret that I must speak with you on this matter so late in your pregnancy.”

Padmé can’t help it--her eyes widen, shocked. Mothma _knew_ , and hadn’t said, but--she’d _known_ , and how, when they were so careful to hide it from everyone they knew--

No helping it now. At the very least, Mothma doesn’t seem to know that Padmé’s not pregnant anymore.

“But it is an urgent matter, and the future of the galaxy depends on it,” Mothma’s saying, snapping her attention back to the hologram. Padmé sits up now, listening even more raptly than she was before, thinking of her twins, of the promise she made to them on Mustafar. “Now more than ever.”

“I’m listening,” she says.

\--

It takes a day, but eventually Ben’s ushered into a suspiciously clean-looking cantina, known to everyone as the Tiny Bantha. It’s an odd name for a cantina, but old and reinforced habit keeps him from voicing that opinion out loud.

“Welcome to the Tiny Bantha,” says Maran, with great enthusiasm, “where the drinks are bantha-shit and the company’s nearly always bantha-pissed.”

“You have _got_ to stop doing that, Maran,” a male Lannik calls from the counter, blonde hair tied back into a loose tail behind his large, floppy ears. He’s grinning all the same, though. “The more you say that, the more it makes me want to cry. That ain’t the height of wit and you _know_ it.”

“Foul lies,” says Maran, sliding into a bar. Ben sits down beside her, but he can’t shake that feeling of paranoia, as if there’s someone just outside the window waiting to kill him, or worse. He glances over to the window, sees no one there.

Briefly, he taps into the Force.

The dark side comes flooding in, and he has to make a conscious effort to push it away, to ignore the whispers of _revengepowerhurtpainrage_ that swell up all of a sudden. He closes his eyes, and--

\-- _surpriseshockelationwarmthlove_ \--

\-- _you’re my brother_ \--

\--his eyes snap open.

“Hello?” Maran’s saying, snapping her fingers in front of him. Right. He’s worried her, he realizes distantly. “Ben? Are you back yet?”

“Where do you keep finding these people, Maran?” the Lannik says. “Seriously. It’s like you’ve got a gift.”

“I’m back,” Ben says, trying for a smile. Judging from the way the Lannik’s brows draw together, concerned, he figures he didn’t succeed at it.

Maran sighs, and says, “Thank the Maker, for a second I was worried I’d have to resort to drastic measures.”

“She means she was going to smack you on the head,” says the Lannik, dryly. “I’m Marvic. You’ve met Maran, and probably her brother too. I apologize for Junior--Carve, by the way, he never learned to step out of his sisters’ shadows.”

“He hasn’t done anything,” says Ben.

“Now I _know_ you’re lying,” Marvic says, with a huff of laughter. “Word to the wise, don’t try and lie to a liar. Never ends well, that.” He glances at Maran and nods to the door, says, “By the way, you asked for updates on Therril?”

“That I did,” says Maran. “Excuse me for a bit, Ben, I need to go see a woman about a debt I settled.”

Ben nods, and watches her leave, fingers tapping nervously on the counter. How many people saw him do--whatever it is he did, when he tapped on the Force for just a moment? He has to get out of here, and fast.

He looks back, and Marvic’s now watching him with narrowed eyes, chin resting on his steepled hands.

“Ben ain’t your real name, innit?” he asks.

“No,” he says.

“Gotta say,” says Marvic, evenly, “I’ve seen plenty of weird shit, manning a bar for ten years. But I’ve never seen someone’s eyes change from blue to yellow like that.”

Ben shrugs, tamping down on the panic that threatens to rise in his chest. “Perhaps it’s a trick of the light,” he says. “This cantina is rather dimly-lit.”

“Nah, I know when something’s a light trick,” says Marvic. “So. What are you?”

“No one you need to know about,” says Ben, putting Force behind his words and waving a hand between them.

Marvic’s eyebrow goes up. “Huh,” he says. “I’ve seen Sun--Bethie do it before, but I never thought I’d see the day somebody tried to mind-trick _me_.”

“It was worth a try,” says Ben. _Shit,_ he thinks. He’s out of practice, or else his own will’s waned. The latter seems more than likely, objectively speaking, because he’s spent--some time, he’s not sure how long, having it battered down into nothing.

The thought of it makes him feel sick to his core.

“You must really want to run,” says Marvic. “Look, Maran likes you. And, hell, believe it or not, someone trying to mind-trick me’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened. I’ve known people who’ve gone down that road.”

_Not anyone as far gone as I am,_ he thinks. Out loud he says, “So you’re going to help?”

“Hold your gunships, pal,” says Marvic, with a huff, “first, let’s wait on Maran to show back up. Then,” and here he hops off a stool behind the counter, ducks down underneath and reemerges with a blue-grey drink that’s frothing with bubbles, “let’s talk deals.”

\--

The history books will say, later on, that Padmé Amidala, from the very start, gave her all to helping form the Rebel Alliance, that she looked at Mon Mothma’s hologram on her birthing bed and said, _yes, what would you ask of me?_

This is what they leave out:

“I won’t be able to help as much as I can,” says Padmé, a little apologetic. She’s holding two children in her arms, one of which is sucking peacefully away. She’s pretty sure she looks the furthest thing from a senator-queen right now, exhausted beyond belief with two squalling infants wanting all her attention. “As you can see, I’m going to be more than a little busy. But,” she adds, “if there’s any assistance I can render, as limited as it’s going to be, I’m willing to render it.”

_I promised._

“It’s all right,” says Senator Mothma. She looks _tired_ , even through the fuzzy hologram--they’re on an outdated frequency that’s just teetering on cutting out entirely on them, but it’s the only thing that the Empire hasn’t thought to monitor just yet. “I’m already putting you and your family at risk, just asking this of you.”

“And you know I’m happy to take that risk,” says Padmé, “for my family as well as the whole galaxy. My children deserve to know what it’s like to live in peace. To live free.”

“They will,” Mothma promises. “I just wish--”

“We all have things we wish, Senator,” says Padmé, thinking of Anakin, sleeping in another room, of Obi-wan, wherever he’s gone. “What do you need me to do?”

“Diplomacy,” says Mothma. “And staying alive. That’s the priority here for you.”

“Oh,” says Padmé. “Okay. That, I can do.”

\--

Anakin swings his new legs back and forth, more restless than he’s ever been. He’s going to have to fix up his prosthetics to fit his preferences, he thinks--temperature control for the hands, maybe some fine-tuning for finer control, and he’s going to have to do something about this model’s joints sticking sometimes.

He breathes out, closes his eyes, and reaches for the Force.

Ahsoka had asked him, once, what it had been like to reach for the Force. It’s different for every Jedi, he knows, but for Anakin himself, it’s like--a river, he thinks, deep and fast, surging forward when he calls and catching him in its current. If he isn’t careful, it might drown him, but _oh_ , swimming it’s a heady rush.

Ironic, considering where he came from.

The river’s gone now. No, that’s--that’s not entirely true, it’s still _there_ , but he can’t swim it with the same ease he used to. He can’t _reach_ for it the same way he used to, like a composer gone deaf, a painter gone blind--

\-- _breathe._

He breathes in, out. Then, hesitantly, he feels his tentative way around. Ahsoka’s nearby, he can feel her in the Force, finally snoozing for the first time in _days_. Padmé’s in another room, and she’s holding _their children_ , shining like supernovas in the Force.

There’s the Dark Side--there’s _always_ the Dark Side, encroaching on everything, but it’s even more pervasive now. There are so few lights in the galaxy left.

One, suddenly, flickers into life, like a candle in the wind, further away. Anakin reins in his shock, because he _knows_ that presence. There’s no way he wouldn’t.

He maybe pushes on it, on the bond that still exists between them. Just a little bit, just enough for him to send warmth and affection across.

Obi-wan shuts down almost immediately, his presence in the Force suddenly blinking out as fast as it flickered in, shocking Anakin back into his own body.

_Breathe._

He breathes in, out.

Obi-wan’s alive. Obi-wan is _alive_ , broken and fallen and actively hiding, but he’s still alive and the dark side isn’t suffocating him, and Anakin can’t help the giddy, relieved laugh that bubbles up out of his throat and past his lips.

They’re going to be okay, he thinks.

\--

Marvic does not have a spare ship, as it turns out.

His friend Bellissine, however, _does_ , and so Ben finds himself being tugged along a rocky path by an excited Twi’lek, her Lannik friend trailing behind them both with a crossbow slung over his back.

“You’ll like Bells,” Maran’s saying, “she used to be a _pirate_. She says she still is, but she spends all her time here, so.”

“She does that ‘cause she’s got a giant crush on you,” says Marvic.

“Oh, a pirate,” Ben mutters, just as they turn a corner and a sleek, shiny ship comes into view. It’s grounded, has been for some time now, he realizes as he gets closer--someone’s built a small, makeshift shelter attached to it.

“Bells!” Maran yells. “Hey, Bells!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” comes the response, and a dark-skinned human woman walks down the ramp a few moments later, tying a bandana around her hair. “So impatient, Maran--”

She stops.

“Oh,” she says, staring at Ben, recognition flickering in her eyes.

“Bells,” says Maran, “this is Ben! He wants a ship. Ben, this is Bells, she’s got a ship.”

“So it’s Ben now, huh?” says Bells, and something flickers around the edges of his memory, something like the sound of a firefight. “Well. Can’t say I ever expected to see _you_ here, of all people.”

“You know him?” Marvic asks.

_Better than I know myself,_ Ben thinks.

“Mm, yes, something like that,” says Bells, canny eyes never leaving his, a hand drifting to the vibroblade holstered onto her belt. “Why don’t you two leave us for a bit, loves? I’ve got quite a lot to catch Ben up on.”

Ben smiles, tightly. “I would love to hear it,” he says, a bad feeling churning in his gut.

\--

The second they step inside the ship--and away, he notes, from Maran and Marvic, who are leaving for Marvic’s bar--Bells grabs him by the collar and slams him up flat against a wall, shoving her arm up onto his throat.

He reacts on instinct, slamming a foot down on hers and twisting away, flicking a hand out to throw her back into a control panel with the Force before his thoughts can kick back in. The lightsaber’s in his hand and already ignited before he even thinks about it, but something--

(-- _you know me_ \--)

\--stops him from stepping forward, the blood-red blade held low at his side, casting everything in a sinister red light.

Bells struggles to her feet and says, “I thought we had an _agreement_. You leave me alone, and I don’t punch you in the face for that mind-trick you pulled on me back on Garel.”

“We had an agreement?” he asks.

“Yes, we _did_ ,” says Bells. “You don’t remember? And what is up with your eyes? And your _lightsaber_? What, are you a Sith now?”

“No,” he says, too quickly.

“Red lightsaber, yellow eyes, Force throw,” says Bells. “I can’t believe it. You were insufferable about being a Jedi way back then, and now--”

“I’m not a _Sith_ ,” he says.

“So what are you?” she asks.

He hesitates. What _is_ he now, he wonders, now that he’s fallen? He can’t be a Jedi anymore, not with--not with all he’s done. Not when he’s this far gone. But he isn’t a Sith either ( _anymore_ ), refuses to be, for all that the darkness is trying so hard to pull him back in.

He switches the lightsaber off, closes his eyes and steps away.

When he opens them again Bells says, “And now you look more like the man I met on Garel.” She pauses, says, “Bit more black than he had, though.”

“Do you believe me now?” he asks.

“Well,” says Bells, “you managed _not_ to kill me. All I hear about the Sith is how focused they are on just murdering everyone in their way.” She squints up at him, suspicious, crosses her arms, and says, “I still don’t trust you, though.”

“Smart move,” he says, rueful. “Maran said you had a spare ship.”

“Maran talks too much, the dear,” sighs Bells, running a hand through her dark hair. “Yes, I have a spare ship. Why would _you_ need one, though?”

“Why do you think?” he asks.

“You’re running from the people who want to hunt down Jedi?” Bells guesses. “Which would be a bit pointless, because the last I heard of you, you were dead.”

( _Take my hand_ \--)

“I’m not,” he says, and it’s true enough from a certain point of view. Never mind that some part of him did die, somewhere along the way. “Obviously.”

“Oh, _obviously_ ,” says Bells. “That’s a brilliant cover story already.” She gestures to his face and adds, “And you look like enough of a mess that no one would think to challenge it. But--and satisfy my curiosity here--what exactly happened?”

“I,” he starts. Stops. “I had--some difficulty, getting out of where I was. I don’t want the people who had me to find me again.”

“So you’re on the run,” says Bells. “I’m not getting any more than that?”

He nods. “Telling you more would take more time than I have,” he says. “Please.”

“All right,” she says with a sigh, dropping her head into her hands. “Fine. You can borrow my ship and head off to Rizel, but if it comes back to me with even a _scratch_ , I won’t be so merciful to you again.”

This, he’s familiar with. “I understand,” he says, and manages not to tack on _ma’am_ at the end.

\--

They stay on Alderaan for about a month--in Padmé’s opinion, it’s a month too long, because the longer any of them stay here, the more likely it is Palpatine’s wrath will come down on Bail and Breha and the rest of Alderaan.

But it’s a needed delay, because a month afterward, Anakin doesn’t stumble half as much as he did on his new prosthetics, and Padmé’s grown used to thinking of herself as a _mother_.

“Stay safe,” says Breha, before Padmé walks up the ramp to her new ship.

“You too, Breha,” says Padmé, wrapping her friend in a hug. “I wish I could stay, I truly do, but--”

“--you don’t want to put us even more at risk,” says Breha, nodding. “I understand.” She hugs Padmé back even tighter. “You take care, all right? You and your children.”

“I will,” Padmé promises. “May the Force be with you, Breha.”

“May the Force be with us all,” says Breha, stepping away just as Anakin strolls into the hangar, Luke sleeping in his arms. Beside him, Ahsoka’s slung her wings over one shoulder, and Leia is nestled in the crook of her arm, sleeping peacefully away.

“Bail and I will be in touch,” says Breha, folding her arms. “Not as often as we’d like, but--we’ll keep in contact.”

“We’ll send along whatever we can find out about the Emperor’s plans,” Ahsoka says.

Anakin’s jaw tenses, at the mention of the Emperor. Padmé doesn’t blame him one bit, she knows how close Anakin had been--or _thought_ he had been--to Palpatine. She steps closer to him, slipping a hand through his free arm without thinking about it before she remembers that he’s not going to feel it just yet.

He relaxes, though, and lets out a breath. “If you see Rex,” he says, “tell him thanks for getting me and Snips off Utapau, all right?”

“And that we’re okay,” adds Ahsoka. Breha nods, and walks away, already fixing up her hair to look more queenly, and Padmé spares a look back at her before she gets on the ship.

She waits until they’ve taken off--and until the twins have managed to calm down from the sudden change of surroundings and Anakin trading Luke off to Ahsoka, who passes Leia off to Padmé--to say, “So what happened on Utapau? All either of you said was that you managed to run.”

“Order 66 happened,” says Ahsoka, bouncing Luke up and down.

Something sputters just up front: a capacitor, she thinks. Anakin slams his hand down on it just a little bit harder than he should.

“They shot my ride out from under me,” he says. “Snips had to fly in and get me out, and _then_ someone shot us down.”

“Coric,” says Ahsoka. “I saw the helmet right before we crashed.”

Leia, nestled in the crook of Padmé’s left arm, makes a small noise against her breast. “Shh, sweetling, it’s all right,” Padmé whispers, before glancing up at Ahsoka. “What did Rex do?”

“Apparently he took out his chip,” says Anakin, carefully navigating a course for a planet somewhere in the Mid Rim.

“Anakin nearly stabbed him in the face with a lightsaber before we realized he wasn’t acting weird,” Ahsoka dryly says. “He stayed behind so we could get away--I hope he’s okay.”

“It’s Rex,” says Anakin. “He’s a tough guy, he’ll be fine.” He doesn’t sound very assured of it, though, keeping his eyes on the stars. “Hold on tight, we’re going to jump to hyperspace in a bit.”

“What about you?” says Ahsoka.

“I watched liberty die while everyone applauded,” says Padmé. _I’m going to bring it back,_ she doesn’t say, but she looks down at Leia and thinks of a promise made on Mustafar. “And then things went downhill from there.”

Ahsoka nods, just as Luke grabs one of her lekku and tries to jam the tip of it into his mouth. “ _Stop_ that,” she tells him, lifting him up and away. “No, Luke. Lekku are not for eating.”

Luke, in answer, starts to cry.

Padmé lets out a long sigh, because now Leia’s let go of her and started crying as well, as if she’s trying to one-up her brother in terms of loudness. She wonders how long it’ll take before either of them--or, Force help them all, _both_ of them--manifest Force abilities, if they haven’t already.

Anakin’s head drops into his hands with a groan. “Just let him try to bite them, Snips,” he says, “he hasn’t even got teeth yet.”

“But he’s sure got _lungs_ ,” Ahsoka grumbles.

“Yes, well,” says Padmé, “that’s Anakin’s fault.”

“No way,” says Anakin, with a huff. “They’ve got _your_ genes too. At least half of it is your fault.”


	3. maybe i bit off more than i could chew

(This is what it feels like to be a ghost right now:

A month ago, a woman you met once before--you don’t remember it, but then you don’t remember a lot of things--dropped you off on a damp planet, made mostly of jungle, and gave you enough for you to get by.

It’s been a month, and you’ve left Rizel since with another ship. This one’s a D9 Runner light freighter, an old but still reliable model, paid for with the credits you stole some time ago, supplemented by the meager amount you’ve managed to earn.

The blaster is tucked away somewhere safe. It still has one shot left in it. Sometimes you pass by the compartment you stashed it in and think of how easy it would be.

You pass on by. You aren’t that desperate yet.

The lightsaber is a heavy weight, stashed away in a pocket. You haven’t switched it on in nearly a month--people talk, when they see a lightsaber, and they’ll talk more if they see the blood-red color of the blade. Talk is the last thing you want following you, because then the Empire will hear that talk, will follow its trail.

And you know the Empire’s looking for you.

Bells had said as much, when she came by your makeshift shelter on Rizel three weeks ago, looking grim. “Did you know there’s a garrison of clone troopers looking for a bearded man with a red lightsaber and a stolen ship?” she had asked, and dread had dropped into your stomach. “You must be very important to someone.”

You left the planet--and her ship--behind the day after.

No, you aren’t important. Ben isn’t, anyway--old Ben, quiet Ben, easily forgotten by everyone he meets, there’s nothing important or interesting about him.

Well, there wouldn’t be if you could keep your eyes from turning yellow every so often. You have no idea how long you can keep playing that off as a trick of the light.

But besides that--there’s nothing important about you anymore. The war is done, and General Obi-wan Kenobi has been dead for a while now. You’re not a general, or a Jedi Master, and you’re certainly not a Sith either, or a Sith’s weapon.

All you are now is just--whatever’s left. All you are now is alone, and horribly lost. Everyone else is gone, dead because of you, and you can’t bring yourself to face whoever has survived.

You’re not sure you could ever--

“Obi-wan,” someone says.

The lightsaber flies to your hand out of your pocket, and it ignites as you whip around. Red light floods the ship’s cabin, and somehow you almost expect to see someone’s dead body, at your feet.

Nothing.

You switch the lightsaber off, your heart hammering fast against your chest. Has someone snuck onboard? You’d let yourself sink into the Force to check, but you haven’t done that in some time. The Dark Side’s there, after all, waiting to pull you back into its suffocating hold. You won’t let it. You can’t.

You let out a breath. “Is anyone there?” you call out. “Because I will drop you off on the next planet, believe me. We’re too far from the last planet now, and I’d rather not go back.”

“You’ll have a hard time even trying to drop me off,” someone says, and you--you _know_ that voice. It’s somewhere in the jagged-glass ruins of your memory, along with a wry smile and--

“You’re dead,” you say, out loud, as Qui-Gon Jinn somehow winks into existence in front of you. “You’re dead, and I have possibly gone insane.” You figure it was just a matter of time, considering how long you were--gone, is the most delicate term for it. You were just hoping it would come _later_ , because you don’t need hallucinations while you’re trying to keep the Empire off your trail.

“That is a very narrow way of seeing things, my padawan,” Qui-gon dryly says.

“I’ve gone insane,” you decide, stuffing the lightsaber back into your pocket and turning away. You don’t need this. You don’t need to look over your shoulder and see Qui-gon Jinn hovering just a few feet away. Your mental stability is practically in shambles, the fact that you’re having hallucinations about your old and fourteen-years-dead master is proof of it. It’s nice to see your subconscious still remembers his face, anyway. “There’s no way you’re here right now, because you died-- _years_ ago.”

“And yet here I am,” says Qui-gon. “I am real. Very much so.”

“Only a hallucination would say as much,” you grumble, settling into a seat once you drop out of hyperspace. “Go away, I’ve an Empire to avoid.”

“Is that any way to talk to your old master?” your hallucination of Qui-gon wryly says.

“You’re a very convincing hallucination, but one nonetheless,” you say, keeping your eyes on the course you’re programming into the computer. What does it say about you and how lonely you are, you wonder, that you’re actually talking with your hallucinations? “I don’t have to talk to you at all.”

“So why talk to me right now, then, if you’re so convinced I’m a figment of your imagination?”

You--don’t know. But there’s an emptiness within you, an ache left behind by everything you’ve lost, throbbing persistently like a phantom limb. You’re alone.

You’ve never really been alone before--when you were a Jedi, you could always reach out through the Force and feel a thousand lights within it. Even when under the Sith’s thumb, there was always _someone_ in the back of your mind, usually Dooku, but Dooku is dead and gone now.

Now there’s nothing for you left. There’s nothing _of_ you left, except shattered bits and pieces of who you were, once upon a time.

And, oh, yeah, apparently hallucinations that insist they aren’t hallucinations.

“Maybe I just want to talk to someone I _didn’t_ kill,” you say, bitter.

“There is Skywalker,” your hallucination points out.

“Or maim,” you add. Anakin Skywalker is--

\--Force.

You don’t even want to touch that topic with a twenty-foot pole. How anyone could be so--so blindly _loyal_ to someone, you don’t know. You’ve fought him, tried to kill him, _maimed_ him, and yet sometimes you can still feel him pushing his feelings along what’s left of your bond, sometimes. Warm feelings, that you keep close to your hollow chest, knowing you don’t deserve to. Images of--of _children_ , wrapped in fuzzy blankets, happily asleep.

Flashes-- _memories_ , you may as well call them that, of sky-blue eyes and crash-landings.

The hallucination says, “He’s not actually closed to the idea of talking to you. He’s been trying to for the past month.”

“I’ve noticed,” you say. _Children,_ Force help you. You don’t know whether to feel guilty for the two children whose father you _maimed_ , or to feel exasperated for Anakin, because--

Because--

Well. You just _are_ , and by now you’ve recognized that much of your exasperation is Anakin Skywalker’s fault.

“And you haven’t answered, why?”

“You’re a figment of my imagination,” you say, sourly, leaning up to check on your shields. You are going to have to buy a better shield generator, you think. “You tell me.”

“I’ve told you before, I’m not a hallucination,” says your hallucination. “ _You_ tell me.”

You let out a long sigh. It’s been a long month, and you want to sleep, and you want this hallucination of your dead master to go away. “If I tell you,” you say, “will you leave?”

“For a time,” says the hallucination.

You think of Mustafar. You think of Order 66. You think of the _Invisible Hand_. You think of sky-blue eyes and a cocksure grin, of a broken plea and the stench of cauterized flesh.

“It’s best if I don’t,” you say. “I’ve done enough to him, no matter what he thinks.”

“Oh, Obi-wan,” sighs your hallucination, soft and sad, “I think you underestimate him.”)

\--

The thing about search-and-rescue missions is that they’re not always supposed to involve explosions, especially not this one. Padmé had been very clear on that-- _please don’t cause too many explosions,_ she had sternly told both Anakin and Ahsoka, while rocking Luke to sleep, _we really can’t afford to draw attention to themselves._

Anakin’s pretty sure it’s safe to say that they went and blew it.

“Well, Skywalker,” Quinlan Vos dryly says, picking at the Force-inhibiting cuffs on his wrists, “this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us both into.”

“Shut up, Vos, you were the one that got caught in the first place,” Anakin grumbles, tapping frantically on his comm link. If he could, he’d take a peek up above this table, but that’s too big a risk to take when they’re currently being shot at by some opportunistic bounty hunters. “Ahsoka? Ahsoka, come in, tell me you’re good to go--”

“I’m okay!” Ahsoka’s voice crackles in over the link. “Just, uh, a bit busy right now.” There’s a muffled explosion, and Anakin lets out a long sigh. “Really! I’m okay!”

“That doesn’t sound okay,” says Anakin. He glances at Vos and says, “Please tell me you’ve made even a _bit_ of progress.”

“Weren’t you the fun one?” Vos says, a corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

“That was before I had kids,” Anakin says.

Vos’s eyes widen in shock. “You’re kidding,” he breathes. “You _spawned_?”

There’s no mention of the Code, Anakin notes. There’s not much use for the Code anymore, he thinks, when there aren’t many Jedi left, when the Order as they know it has been obliterated, when they all have to duck and run and try to forget where they came from.

He shrugs, says, dryly, “Yes, and they’re very adorable kids that I’d love to get back home to, so please tell me you’re _done_?”

“Come out, come out, little Jedi!” calls the bounty hunter, his voice an awful mechanized noise that makes Anakin want nothing more than to punch his teeth in. If he even has teeth, which is kind of doubtful, considering his species. “I promise I won’t hurt you. Much.”

“Nah, we’ll be gentle about it!” adds the bounty hunter’s sidekick, the one who’s currently spraying them and their surrounding area with a hail of energy bolts and metal bullets.

“That’s reassuring,” says Vos. “And about the handcuffs, not _yet_. You rush a miracle worker, Skywalker--”

“You’re as much a miracle worker as I am, Vos,” Anakin mutters, just as he hears someone flying overhead. _Ahsoka_ , he realizes, and a relieved laugh bubbles up in his throat and out past his mouth.

Vos squints up at the sky. “Is that _Tano_?” he says.

“ _She’s_ a better miracle worker, though,” Anakin says, hearing the satisfying noise of Ahsoka’s foot smacking against the side of someone’s head and the click and clatter of Vos’s handcuffs falling to the ground. His lightsaber flies to his hand, and he grins at Vos. “Keep up,” he says.

“I should be saying that to you,” says Vos, drawing his own lightsaber, and the two of them leap over the table, blocking and deflecting wild blaster shots.

Between the three of them, they make short work of the bounty hunters, and Ahsoka even goes along with Anakin’s bright idea of tying the two of them up and leaving them to dangle upside-down just outside the new Imperial governor’s temporary offices. All in all, Anakin’s in a pretty good mood by the time they get back to Padmé and the twins.

So of course Vos has to say, “Did--Did anyone else get out?” _Did Aayla get out?_ he doesn’t say, but Anakin’s not dumb. Vos cared for his former padawan, just as much as Anakin cares about Ahsoka, about his children.

“Master Yoda did,” Ahsoka says. “I know there’s a few of us left, but--we haven’t run into any of them. I’m sorry.”

Vos bows his head, says, “I don’t know what I expected.”

It’s not a _lie_. Not from a certain point of view, for the most part.

It’s just--not the whole truth.

“Well, here we are,” says Anakin, forcing some cheer into his tone to try and steer the subject away from Order 66, because then it’ll probably get steered onto Mustafar, and that is not a topic he’s going to touch with a twenty-foot pole while Vos is anywhere nearby. “Let me just--”

“ _Anakin!_ ”

“You’re in for it,” Ahsoka says, with an inordinate amount of glee.

“Help me, Snips,” says Anakin.

In answer, Ahsoka grabs hold of Vos and backs away, still smiling.

“You’re a traitor and I hate you,” Anakin informs her, just as Padmé marches up to him, Luke babbling happily away in her arms.

“Didn’t I say _don’t cause too many explosions_?” she says.

Vos, the asshole, says, “You and _Senator Amidala_?”

\--

They’re en route to some planet away from Alderaan to rendezvous with Bail Organa--and drop Vos off with him--when Padmé walks into the kitchen to find Anakin fiddling with the servos in his left hand, a cold cup of caf just inches from his elbow.

“Careful now,” she says, picking up the caf and setting it down much further away, “wouldn’t want you to make a mess all over the only table we have.”

Anakin blinks, then looks up. “Hey,” he says, mouth turning upwards in a tired smile.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” she asks. “I thought you would be, the twins are quiet for once.” And she loves them, she does, but sleep has become an almost mythical, magical thing since Luke and Leia came into the world.

“I tried,” says Anakin. “I--didn’t really feel like it.”

There’s something more he’s not saying, so she sits down beside him. “What is it?” she asks.

“Vos is here,” he says.

“So?”

Anakin waves his right hand over his left. “So,” he says, “it’s--not something I want to talk about while he’s around.”

“Oh,” she says, understanding. “Obi-wan.”

Anakin nods, face falling visibly. He looks back down at his hand, then unplugs a few wires, plugging them into different outlets.

“He might not be the same,” she says, lowering her voice. “You know that. We’ve talked about that.”

“I still have to try,” says Anakin, his voice whisper-soft. “I gave up on him once before, and this happened. I can’t do it again.”

Padmé lets out a breath, scoots her chair even closer, rests her hand on the back of Anakin’s neck and lets her head fall forward until their foreheads touch. “Ani,” she says, quiet, “it wasn’t your fault.”

“I let him fall,” Anakin whispers, lowly.

“You didn’t,” she says. “Listen to me, all right? You did your best. You did what you could, he did what he could, and sometimes that’s not enough.”

“It _should’ve_ been,” Anakin says, the words bitter and broken. “I’m supposed to be the Hero with No Fear. I’m supposed to be stronger than that, better than that.”

“I told you to listen to me, didn’t I?” Padmé says, a little annoyed. “You’re only one man, Jedi or not, Hero with No Fear or not.” The moniker is still bantha shit and she doesn’t know why Anakin seems to place so much importance on it, but in the interests of keeping the conversation on track, she refrains from mentioning that. “We can’t do everything, and we can’t save everyone. Sometimes we even fuck up ourselves--I was the one who helped pave the way for Palpatine to come into power, remember?”

Anakin shakes his head. “That wasn’t your fault,” he says. “You didn’t know he was a Sith lord, he had even Master Yoda fooled right up until the end.” He pauses a moment, eyes widening, and says, “Oh.”

“And that,” says Padmé, “is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“It’s _different_ ,” he protests, weakly.

“It’s not that different,” she says. “If I can’t blame myself for Palpatine,” and she does, gods and spirits and stars and _whatever_ help her, she sometimes wonders if it was that mistake of hers that triggered everything, “then you can’t blame yourself for Obi-wan.”

Anakin lets out a breath, closes his eyes, says, “Easier said than done.” He sounds so wrecked.

Padmé presses a soft kiss to his lips. “I know,” she says. “Look, go to sleep.”

“I do have to fix this hand,” says Anakin. “The fingers keep sticking.”

“Then let me help,” she says.

\--

The Empire puts out bounties for the Jedi traitors Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano, never mind that Ahsoka hasn’t been a Jedi in a long time. The Empire says Padmé Amidala went missing en route to Naboo, and it’s such a shame they had to lose such a promising young senator so soon, on the heels of the Emperor’s rise to power.

The Empire says that Obi-wan Kenobi died a year ago, a hero of the Republic, and the fact that they’re on the lookout for a man matching his appearance and wielding a lightsaber is a complete coincidence, yes, sir, have you seen this man?

From a certain point of view, they’re not lying about Kenobi.

Just--

\--applying some creative interpretation, is what it’s delicately called, amongst those who Know, and they are a very small and very elite number of people indeed. Even fewer, among them, know the exact words that could bring him back to his knees, ready to comply.

The Emperor walks into what used to be the Jedi Council’s meeting chamber, looks out at the view of Imperial Center, formerly known as Coruscant, and smiles to himself.

He’ll have him back, he knows. Maybe not soon, but he knows for a fact that he’ll have Kenobi kneeling at his feet again.

That, or one of Skywalker’s children should do quite nicely, in a pinch.

\--

It’s very hard, Padmé has come to realize four months on, to raise two children and ignite a rebellion at the same time. The twins will always demand her attention more, even if she’s more of a liaison connecting pockets of resistance than an actual agent in the thick of the action, as Anakin and Ahsoka usually are.

_Usually._

“I can’t believe you,” says Padmé, staring at Anakin’s busted prosthetic in her hands. “Was it really necessary to block a blast door with your _hand_?”

“It was the only thing I thought to do at the time,” says Anakin, and at least he looks sheepish, though the stump of his left hand coupled with the bruise blooming underneath his right eye kind of ruins the effect a little. Luke is napping peacefully away in his baby sling, and Padmé spares a moment to feel slightly jealous of her son for being able to sleep through this mess. “Anyway, it’s fine. I was going to have it replaced anyway when we get to Alderaan, the model’s complete bantha-shit.”

“Was there any other way out?” Padmé asks.

“Artoo and I were working on it,” says Ahsoka, a bacta patch over a small cut on her cheek. She’s bouncing Leia on her knee, and Leia’s taken an interest in trying to grab her lekku. “I mean, there were troopers shooting at us so we were a _bit_ delayed, but we almost had it by the time Anakin _stuck his hand in a blast door_.”

“It saved your asses from getting stuck!” Anakin protests.

“You nearly got _shot_ ,” says Ahsoka.

Padmé does not throw Anakin’s prosthetic at his face, because she loves him very much even when he’s clearly doing his best to drive her to drink. And because he’s holding their son with one hand, _and_ he already has a bruise. But she entertains the thought of it anyway.

“Would it be too much to ask you to not put yourself in a situation where you _don’t_ get shot at?” she asks.

“Given our luck?” Anakin says. “I think getting shot at is going to be something that happens on every mission.” He looks down at Luke, then up at her again. “Sorry,” he offers.

“You have _children_ ,” says Padmé. “You’ve got to stop putting yourself at risk so much. I can’t--” She cuts herself off, puts her face in her hands, and exhales. “Please, Ani,” she says. “Stop trying to get yourself killed.” _I need you,_ she doesn’t say.

“I’m not,” he says, weakly.

“You kind of are,” says Ahsoka.

Leia, on account of being an infant of four months and a week, not that Padmé keeps count, just babbles at Ahsoka and tries, once again, to jam one of Ahsoka’s lekku into her mouth.

“See, Leia agrees with me,” says Ahsoka.

“Leia thinks your lekku taste delicious, she does not have an opinion here,” Anakin shoots back, just Luke makes a little snuffling noise, the kind that says he’s starting to wake up.

“All right, swap,” Padmé orders, and in moments she’s got Luke in her arms and Anakin has his sad mess of a prosthetic in his sole hand. “I’m going to make it an order,” she tells Anakin. “Do _not_ get yourself killed. Are we clear on that?”

“You’re not my superior,” says Anakin, stubbornly.

“I’m your wife,” she says, then stops, because it’s still new to her, being able to say that with other people in the room--being able to look at Anakin with more than cool professionalism, being able to press a kiss against his lips without wondering if someone could see, not having to care that someone _would_ see. “That should be enough.”

Anakin pauses, huffs out a breath. “All right, all right,” he says. “I won’t get myself killed. I’ll try not to, anyway.”

“That’s all I need,” says Padmé, just as she hears the ringing noise of someone trying to hail them from the cockpit.

“I’ll get it,” says Ahsoka.

\--

They stop at Rizel, and Padmé leaves to rendezvous with Organa somewhere on the outskirts of town. Anakin, for his part, takes Leia with him when he wanders into town, Ahsoka on his heels with Luke in her arms.

It’s a bustling little town, and he can hear people hawking their wares at him, but most of what they’re trying to hawk isn’t what he’s interested in.

Leia, however, seems definitely interested in something, because when he passes by a small shop selling toys she starts _wailing_.

“Oh, no,” he says, glancing around and cursing when he sees all the eyes turning to look at him, “oh, _no_ , Leia, baby--”

Luke, behind them, starts wailing as well.

“Shh,” Ahsoka frantically whispers, “ _shh_ , no, Luke, it’s okay, it’s fine--”

“Maker’s breath,” says the woman from the toy shop, leaning on her counter. Anakin turns slowly around and blinks at her, at the gold decorating her neck and ears, at the canny way her eyes flick over the both of them. There is _no_ way, he thinks, that this woman is a mere toymaker. “Are you not going to shut those two up?”

“We’re _trying_ ,” says Anakin. “It’s a little hard when you have one hand.”

“Ah,” says the woman. “Well, then, come on in. Seems your girl’s taken a liking to something here.” She holds up a rattle and shakes it, and suddenly Leia’s wailing tapers off. She makes a burbling noise and reaches out, as if to grab the rattle.

“Aww, look at her,” says Ahsoka, cooing. “Luke! Look at your sister, isn’t that cute?”

Then the rattle practically flies out of the woman’s hand and hits Anakin hard on the forehead.

\--

“You know,” says Ahsoka, when Anakin stirs back into consciousness and the twins have been quite thoroughly placated with an abundance of toys, “I didn’t know you could manifest that early.”

“Technically,” says Anakin, pulling himself up to a sitting position, “you’re not supposed to.” He presses the heel of his hand to the bruise on his head, and makes a face. “Figures they’d be rulebreakers,” he mutters.

“Just like their dad,” Ahsoka chirps, and maybe years ago the look that Anakin shoots her would’ve shut her up immediately, but she’s been his padawan and his friend for too long to be affected by his death glares now. “Don’t put that in your mouth, Luke!” she calls.

“I’m on it,” says the woman--Bellissine, _but just call me Bells_ , the woman that Ahsoka’s pretty sure is a lot more than someone just selling toys. She steps over to the twins and kneels down to their level, plucks the rattle out of Luke’s hand, then taps his nose. “Naughty little thing,” she says, then looks at Ahsoka. “You’re their babysitter?”

“Something like that, yeah,” says Ahsoka. “Hey, thanks for letting us use your stall. Sorry about the twins, they’re curious about everything.”

“Children often are,” Bells dryly says. “Thank the Maker I never had any.”

“You sell toys,” says Anakin.

“That’s a front,” says Bells, casually leaning against the stall’s table again.

Ahsoka steps away from Anakin and closer to the twins. “For a criminal,” she says, “you sure admit pretty quick to this being a front for something.”

“For two Jedi on the run,” Bells shoots back, “neither of you are very good at hiding.” She folds her arms and says, “Cloaks? Really? You might as well have hung a sign around your necks-- _I’m a fugitive from the Empire, please come arrest me_.”

“Wait,” says Anakin, “you know we’re Jedi?”

“Technically,” says Ahsoka, with a shrug, “I’m not a Jedi anymore.”

“How could I not know?” Bells says, unfolding her arms and straightening up. “After all, Anakin Skywalker, you tend to stand out quite easily in a crowd.” She tilts her head and smiles. “Must be the scar. It makes you look rugged.”

“I’m _married_ ,” Anakin says, immediately. “And I’ve got kids.”

“Then you’re a poor example of a Jedi,” says Bells, easily. “And you--Hondo Ohnaka talked about a Togruta girl. You know, you’ve got something of a reputation.”

A _reputation_. Ahsoka hasn’t seen Hondo Ohnaka in a while, and yet apparently she’s made an impression on him. She’s kind of proud of herself. “Great, thanks,” she says, still inching closer to the twins. “So--you’re a pirate.”

“Caught,” says Bells. “And you’re an ex-Jedi and a terrible Jedi with two squalling infants.” She spreads her arms out to indicate the whole tent and says, “We’re all wanted people here.” She pauses, then adds, “Except for the infants.”

“And these are--”

“Believe it or not,” says Bells, “my friend Mers makes them. She’s quite adorably morbid, lives a planet over.”

Ahsoka lets out a breath, and says, “So you’re not going to turn us in?”

“Mm, the reward’s tempting,” says Bells, “but no, I’d rather not. _My_ head is worth about twenty thousand credits, last I checked.” She sniffs, and rolls her eyes. “ _Just_ twenty thousand, and suddenly you get stabbed in the back by half your crew. They should’ve held out for fifty.”

Pirates, Ahsoka has found, have strange priorities.

Anakin says, “You said this is a front for something. What is it?”

“What do you think?” says Bells, ducking underneath the table Anakin is on to pull out a nondescript trunk. She takes the lid off, and Ahsoka finds herself staring at--ship parts, she realizes. _Stolen_ ship parts, stripped expertly of any identification, and weapons as well: pistols, rifles, ammunition packs, the like.

Anakin says, “I could use some of them. What about you, Snips?”

“Well,” says Ahsoka, “it’d be nice to have some backup parts for my wings.”

Luke just babbles happily, crawling up to the crate. Ahsoka huffs out a breath, then picks him up and bounces him on her knee. “No, Luke,” she says, patiently, “blasters are _not_ for babies.”

“She’s got the right idea,” says Bells, dryly. “I have to say, you two are much more sociable than the last Jedi I ran into.”

Anakin runs his lone hand through his hair, says with a deceptively casual tone, “Can’t be that many of us left. What did he look like? Did he say where he was going?”

Bells’ eyes slide to Anakin, and she says, “I think you already know what he looks like. After all, he was your master.” She rummages around in the crate, pulls out a stabilizing coil, and says, “He didn’t say where he came from, just dumped his ship on my-- _friend_ Maran and asked for a ride here.”

Ahsoka holds Luke closer to her chest. “He’s here?” she asks, and oh, she sounds so wary even to herself. She’s got reason to be, she thinks, glancing at Anakin and the stump of his arm.

“Nope,” says Bells, popping the “p”, and Ahsoka relaxes. “He left months ago, after the Empire put a garrison here.”

“Do you know where he went?” Anakin asks, as Leia crawls over to him and tugs on his pant, insistent on being picked up.

“He didn’t say,” says Bells. She tucks a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear and says, “He just up and left, only left a note thanking me for my help. Not even a single measly credit.” She sighs, shakes her head. “That’s what I get for doing what Maran would do, I suppose.”

“We’d pay,” says Ahsoka, dryly, “but, uh. We’re kind of broke and on the run. Will you take an IOU?”

“ _Jedi_ ,” says Bells, dropping her face into her hands.

Luke gives a laugh, grabs hold of Ahsoka’s right lek, and jams it into his mouth.

“Luke!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all right, two more chapters to go! I _hope_.


	4. when it rains it pours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so originally, this was supposed to be one chapter! however, it was getting v v long in gdocs ( _20 pages_ when I gave in) so consider this the first part of what I'm affectionately calling the Socorro arc. the second part will, hopefully, be much shorter.
> 
> we're starting to get close to the Anakin/Obi-wan reunion!

He ditches his ship on Socorro.

Not the best planet to stay on, he knows, but that’s fine. He’s not going to stay around for long anyway, just long enough to scrape together some money for another ship. One capable of going into hyperspace without dropping out halfway through and stranding him on a wretched hive of scum and villainy--

\--anyway.

He manages to find himself a job on the first day, filling in as a bartender at a cantina near the shipyard, after the last one’s spectacular resignation. Bartending, he finds, is mostly just listening and pouring drinks for people, sometimes cutting them off when they’ve had too much, but otherwise it’s a lot less eventful than he thought it would be, considering the planet’s reputation.

His life is a lot less eventful than he thought it would be, considering his luck and the hallucination that keeps coming back.

It’s on his second day, as he walks back to his cramped and leaking apartment, that someone tries to pick his pocket.

_Tries._

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” he says, hand darting out to grab hold of the street urchin who’s about to make off with what little money he has.

“Nothin’, sir,” says the urchin, doing a surprisingly good job of hiding the money and looking innocently wounded. “Can’t see why you’d think I did anythin’. Sir.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Does lifting the contents of someone’s pocket count as nothing here?” he asks. He wouldn’t be surprised, if he thinks, if the boy answered with a resounding _yes_.

The boy’s eyes widen, instead, then he turns on his heel and breaks into a full-on sprint.

Ben (Obi-wan, the apprentice, the ghost, _whichever_ ) runs after him. At this time of night, there aren’t many people out besides a few people dressed as invitingly as possible, all of them currently gathered on a corner and trading gossip and not paying attention to their surroundings, so he doesn’t think much of pulling just enough on the Force to propel him into a higher jump than normal to reach a roof.

The boy turns a corner.

Ben jumps off, lands in front of him on both feet.

“What in the karking _hells_ ,” says the boy, clutching the credits close to his chest.

“I’m very good at jumping,” says Ben, putting his hands on his hips. “Now. You have something of mine?”

“I _can’t_ ,” says the boy, miserably. “I can’t give it back.”

Ben sighs, and kneels down to meet the boy’s gaze. “Why not?” he asks.

The boy shrugs. “Shrike,” he says. “He’s already after me ‘cause I kept more than I should of the last take, but I was so _hungry_.”

Ben lets out a long breath. He’s only heard of Shrike in snatches of conversation from the bar, but the man’s cruelty shines through in most of them. “Come with me,” he says, at last.

The boy squints suspiciously at him. “How come?” he asks. Good kid. The last time the apprentice was around children--

\--what is he even _doing_?

“Like you said,” he says, “you can’t go back to Shrike with so little.” He stands up and says, “And I have some food left over from the last planet I went to.”

The boy falls into step beside him, still clutching the credits close, squinting suspiciously up at him. He has no doubt this little urchin probably has some kind of weapon hidden on him, just in case. Everyone on Socorro seems to carry at least one weapon on them.

The lightsaber sits heavy in his coat pocket, hidden safely away, and the blaster secured in a holster strapped to his thigh, only one shot left. He glances back at the boy, thinks of a defiant young boy no older than the urchin currently striding beside him, standing his ground against a thing of darkness and a squad of trained clones.

His stomach churns, ties itself into knots.

“What’s your name, anyway?” says the boy, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Ben,” he says, after a moment’s pause.

“Han,” says the boy.

\--

The apartment he’s renting for the time being is--not as cramped as it used to be, though that’s only because he’s taken out much of the furniture: the shelves, the hideous armchairs, the overly kitschy caf table that will probably haunt his nightmares forever now.

Han takes one look at the nearly bare room and says, “You’re not planning on staying long, are you?”

“Not really, no,” he says, waving a hand to the lone couch left. “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll see what I can do about the food.”

Han squints suspiciously up at him, but obeys, still clutching the credits close to his chest. Ben sighs, massages his temples--he’s probably not going to get those back, he thinks.

Unless--

\--he might not have been a half-bad cook, before. It won’t hurt to try.

He heads into the kitchen, pulls out the leftovers. They’re not very rich, he can’t really stand those, but there’s some seasoning around that he could use.

“Are you allergic to anything?” he yells.

“What?” Han shouts back.

“Are you going to get sick from a specific type of food?” he yells back.

“Uh, no!” comes the answer. _Good,_ he thinks.

“Cooking now, are we?” And there’s that hallucination again, sounding amused. He closes his eyes, lets out a long, slow breath. This is the _worst_ time for his fucked-up subconscious to pull his dead master back out.

“I have a guest,” he mutters, “so if you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to attend to.”

The hallucination leans over his shoulder and says, “Well, you’ve certainly learned since Mandalore.”

“A _guest_ ,” he hisses.

“I noticed,” says the hallucination, then: “Don’t put more salt in, the taste will suffer.”

“I’m taking cooking advice from a hallucination,” he says to himself, putting the salt back down and resolutely keeping his eyes on dinner. He’d laugh if he could, he thinks. As things stand, he resolutely ignores any more attempts at conversation his hallucination tries to strike up, even as he’s taking his advice.

Han squints suspiciously at the meal, once Ben’s deposited it in front of him. “You want something?” he asks.

“Well,” says Ben, sitting down next to him, “like I said, I’m not going to stay long. But I’m willing to make an arrangement for my stay.”

“Okay,” says Han, “what?”

“Be my eyes,” says Ben. “Tell me if the Empire is coming anywhere near this place. Tell me if you see troopers in the streets, Imperial staff asking after anyone. Tell me who’s most likely to take their money and who won’t, who’s acting strangely or too casually. Tell me who I can trust--for a given value of trust.”

“What makes you so sure you can trust me?” Han asks.

“Because I’ll be paying you,” says Ben. “And not just in credits.” He glances at Han, whose brows are knitting together now in confusion, and smiles. “I work as a bartender at a cantina a few streets away,” he says. “If you give me information, I’ll give you food and drink, if you come by--let’s say, two or three times a day. How does that sound to you?”

“No ration bars,” says Han, immediately. “They taste bad.”

“No ration bars, then,” says Ben.

Han nods, then, and sticks a grimy hand out. “Shake on it,” he says.

“If you insist,” says Ben, taking his hand. He’ll wash up later, he figures.

\--

The weeks go on, and the galaxy moves on.

He hears snatches, sometimes, working at the cantina. It’s not hard to overhear bits and pieces of the Empire’s movements here, but considering why people usually head to a cantina, it’s much harder to tell what’s true from what’s not.

Most of the time, anyway.

“And _then_ ,” says the young man, brandishing a lightsaber hilt and waving it around, “I took this, as a trophy of my victory!”

 _More like you stole it off a corpse,_ he thinks. The man doesn’t look as if he’s fought a day in his life, and Ben honestly doubts he could last in a fight against a half-trained Padawan, let alone a fully-fledged Jedi Knight like he keeps insisting.

“That’s so amazing,” says the Togrutan woman draped all over the man, smiling beatifically at him. The smuggler grins, attention all on her face, and leans in to give her a sloppy kiss.

Ben decides not to tell him his companion’s been plumbing his pockets with every kiss, and that at this rate, he won’t be able to pay for his ale by the end of the night. Instead he just gives the Togrutan a nod, and sets the now-clean glass down on the counter.

“He didn’t get that in a fight,” says Han, further down, halfway through his bowl of soup. “He keeps saying he did, but he changes the species every time, ‘pending on who he’s with or what bar he’s in.”

“I know,” says Ben. “This isn’t his first time here.”

“Last time he said it was a Zeltron,” says Han.

“I know, I was there for that time,” says Ben. “Couldn’t pay at the end of the night either.” He nods to the Togrutan woman, egging on the man for more stories. “She’s not the first one to have seen an easy target.”

“Maybe ‘cause her girlfriend told her about him,” says Han, contemplatively.

“The Zabrak he was with last time?”

“Mm-hmm,” says Han, before sipping at his soup. “There’s talk the Empire’s gonna put a governor in charge--something about stamping out rebel sympathies? Anyway, I think it’s just talk, ‘cause so far all I heard was just drunks talking about how the Emperor’s gonna come down on everyone here, but it’s spooked Shrike plenty.”

(A smile that wasn’t a smile, a flash of lightning, a scream tearing from his already-raw throat--)

“Hey, Ben,” says Han, snapping too-scrawny fingers at him, and he blinks for a moment, staring down at the impressions his fingers left in the counter. “You okay? Don’t tell me it’s got _you_ all spooked too.”

“No,” says--says Ben, that’s him, “no, I’m--I’m fine.”

\--

“You’re not fine,” says his hallucination, sounding much more concerned than a figment of his imagination has any right to be.

“Of course I’m not fine,” he mutters, dumping out the few things he’s managed to accumulate in the weeks he’s spent on Socorro on his couch. A book or two, a stabilizing coil, sixteen IOU’s in varying states of legibility, a bottle of Alderaanian wine from a grateful Zabrak thief that’s still full, enough credits to buy a mostly-unreliable ship. “You heard Han. How long until drunken talk turns into sober action?”

“No, I didn’t,” says his hallucination, patiently.

“Are you still insisting you’re real?” he grumbles, sorting through the mess on his couch. “No, don’t answer that, I can guess for myself.” It could be worse, he supposes. He could be hallucinating someone who died at the Temple, or worse, Anakin. At least Qui-gon’s helpful.

“I _am_ real,” says the hallucination.

“How would you know,” he says, emptying his pockets. There isn’t much in them, just the day’s wages and the lightsaber, and he’s not going to use the blaster, not yet. _How would I know,_ he doesn’t say. “I shouldn’t have stayed so long,” he says, “what was I _thinking_ \--”

“You don’t know if they’ll come here at all,” says his hallucination, folding his arms. “Calm down.”

“I’m calm,” he says, slumping down, hands starting to tremble.

His hallucination raises an eyebrow.

He sighs, runs a shaking hand through his hair. “All right, I’m not calm,” he admits. “I’m terrified. I can’t get caught by the Empire, not now, I don’t--I’m not going back. _Ever._ ” Not to the cold, not to the lightning, not to the false peace offered by the Sith, not to what they turned him into.

 _Fear is a path into the Dark Side,_ someone said once to him. But he’s already fallen, and right now fear is one of the few things keeping him a step ahead of the Empire.

“You could still--”

“If the next words out of your mouth include the name _Anakin Skywalker_ , then no,” he says, stuffing what he’s keeping into a small bag. “He’s safe.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” says his hallucination, dryly.

“As safe as is possible for him,” he amends. “Which is far away from someone who _actively tried to kill him._ ”

“He doesn’t seem to mind that,” says his hallucination.

“I’ve noticed,” he says. “Even then--I don’t know what surprises the Sith left in my head. There’s a possibility I may still be a danger.”

“You haven’t acted very dangerous in some time,” says his hallucination. “In fact, I’d say you’ve been the exact opposite. You fed that boy Han.”

“Bribed him,” he says, closing up the bag. “With food and money. And I can’t keep feeding him if I’m off the planet.”

“What makes you so sure that he won’t come with you?” says his hallucination. “You’ve said it yourself, Shrike hardly treats him well.”

He lets himself think about it, for a moment, a hand stilling over the bag. He could take Han on, perhaps. Shrike would hardly miss a small, scrawny beggar child, and he wouldn’t be so lonely anymore. And it’d be good for his cover, he thinks.

He closes his eyes.

A young boy stands his ground, terrified but ready to fight. For a moment--just for a moment--he sees Han in the boy’s place.

“No,” he says, opening his eyes again. “No, too dangerous.” He glances at his hallucination, who’s raising an eyebrow, and adds, “And _not_ just because of me. The Empire’s after me, and something tells me they’re not going to be so inclined to show mercy to anyone who decides to come along with me.” And, damn it, he’s scared of what he himself might do to the boy, if one of the surprises in his head gets triggered. “But he deserves better than Shrike. Than me. I wish I could give him that.”

“You’re not as bad as Shrike,” says his hallucination.

He thinks of the temple burning against the Coruscant sky, of the sick sizzling noise of a lightsaber slicing into flesh, of Anakin Skywalker’s bright blue eyes and desperate pleas.

“No,” he says, quiet, “Shrike’s petty and cruel, but he’s a small-time thief. What I did is on another scale entirely.”

“So you’re going to run from that,” says his hallucination.

“You don’t have to pretend not to judge me, you know,” he says, dryly. “I’ve been judging myself since--since Mustafar.” He lets out a breath. “Maybe even before, but I don’t know.”

“You can’t run forever,” says his hallucination. “Not from Skywalker, not from your deeds, not from who you were.”

“He must’ve been a good man, whoever I was,” he says, “but I’m sure a dead man can’t do much chasing.”

“You know what I mean,” says his hallucination, sounding distinctly exasperated. He takes some small measure of vindictive pleasure from that--the hallucination’s been following him around and annoying him for months, it’s about time he annoyed him right back.

“Right now,” he says, “running is the only thing keeping me from either dying or falling back into the Emperor’s hands.” And the latter option is not an option at all--it’s what the blaster’s there for. But he’s not going to say that out loud, not even to himself. “I’d ask you to help me pack, but I kind of doubt that.”

“You’d be right,” concedes his hallucination. “On that much, at least. Interacting with the physical world is still something of a challenge.”

“Of course it is,” he says, “you’re not _real._ ”

He doesn’t have to check to know his hallucination of Qui-gon’s just rolled his eyes.

\--

Two days later, an Imperial garrison lands on Socorro, accompanying a pale, icy-eyed man with a receding hairline, going by the name Rosset.

The crackdowns happen almost immediately--the man bragging about beating a Jedi and taking his lightsaber suddenly goes missing. Half of the cantina’s usual patrons just _disappear_ , all of a sudden, all within hours of each other.

“Kriff,” says Han, perched on top of his usual seat and squinting at the few regulars inside. “Slow day?”

“Very,” says Ben, wiping down a glass. His hands are admirably steady when he sets it down, but start shaking again the moment he doesn’t have anything in them.

“You okay?” Han asks.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “Just--I’ll have to leave soon. Very soon.”

“Good luck with that,” says Han, “they impounded all the ships. And didja hear, they’re gonna put a curfew in place too.” He shakes his head, makes a face. “Shrike’s gonna be pissed. We’ve been packing up the _Trader’s Luck_ for a day or so, he’s planning on bribing his way out.”

“I wish him the best of luck,” Ben mutters. “I’m not too sure this lot can be so easily bought off.”

“He says it’s just a matter of finding the right price,” says Han, with a shrug. “Every man has one.”

“Yes, but the problem is that they’ve already been bought,” says Ben. He fishes about in his pockets, passes over some credits. “Take this,” he says, quiet. “Go home, Han. Find passage on another ship off of Socorro.” He looks out at the windows, where one of the new Stormtroopers walks past, white armor gleaming in the sunlight, and says, “I’ve got a bad feeling about all of this.”

“All right,” says Han, dubiously. “But what about you?”

“I can take care of myself,” says Ben.

\--

“What in the _hells,_ ” he says that night, opening his door to a Togrutan, a Zabrak, and Han. “I thought I told you to go _home_ , Han.”

“I can’t,” says Han, and he realizes quickly that Han’s eyes are rimmed with red, as if he’s been crying. “I--they took _everyone_ , even Shrike, I can’t go back to the _Trader’s Luck_ , they’ll-- _they’ll_ \--”

“You’re the bartender,” says the Togrutan, all business. Gone are her soft smiles, her lilting voice, her gentle movements--there’s something canny about her eyes, about the way her gaze flicks from him to his bare apartment. “Han says you can be trusted.”

“Han trusts me because I fed and paid him for information,” he says. “I’m leaving.”

“We know you’re leaving,” says the Zabrak, clad now in dark clothes covering her from neck to toe. “He also said you didn’t plan on staying long.” She grins, says, “And boy, bartender, have we got a deal for you.”

“I’m not in the business of making deals,” says Ben, about to shut the door closed. “Thank you for thinking of me, though.”

“You’ve not heard our deal,” says the Togrutan, shoving her foot in before he can close the door fully on them. “Hear us out first. Then you can decide whether to take it or turn us down. I really don’t care either way.”

“Come on, Ben,” says Han, “please.”

Ben lets out a breath, then opens the door to let all three of them in. “This is going to backfire badly on me,” he murmurs, shutting door as Han hurries in. He glances to the side, half-expecting to see Qui-gon Jinn, and feels oddly bereft when he doesn’t find him.

Great, he’s gone and gotten attached to a hallucination.

“My name is Zaana,” says the Togrutan woman, posture straight as she sits down on the couch. “This is Kass. She’s my partner, in all senses of the term.”

“Partners in crime and partners in bed,” says Kass, with a lazy smirk, draping herself all over her partner and the couch as Han perches on the armrest. “I hope you enjoyed the wine,” she adds.

“I’m _right here_ ,” says Han, annoyed.

“You’ll have to excuse Han,” Ben says, before he can stop himself, “he’s at the age where he thinks all girls have some form of kissing disease.”

“No I _don’t_ ,” Han protests, indignantly.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” says Kass, flicking her sharp fingers dismissively towards Han, “that old myth’s just that. A myth.” She looks back at Ben and says, “Where were we?”

“The deal,” says Zaana.

“Please,” says Ben, “do enlighten me on what this deal is, that you had to risk yourselves, and a _young boy_ , by coming here in the dead of night.”

“Rosset,” says Zaana. “I have--let’s say, a personal interest in seeing him brought down.”

“And the best way to do that,” says Kass, “is to sneak into his offices--”

“You can hardly expect me to just--”

“Let us finish,” says Zaana, each word weighed down with a warning. “We need to sneak into his offices to blow it up.”

“You hardly need me, if that’s what you’re planning on doing,” says Ben.

“But we do,” says Kass. “Rosset knows our faces, and he bears something of a grudge against me and Zaana for--a few small things involving his abject humiliation, let’s say.” She straightens up, swings her legs off the couch, and says, “That’s where you come in.”

“He doesn’t know you,” says Zaana. “You can plant the explosives, and then get out of there.”

“And what would be in it for me?” he asks.

“You get to leave,” says Kass. “I’ll get my ship _un_ impounded--should be real kriffing easy, that. Then you come with us, and we drop you off on--where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere much farther from Coruscant than Socorro,” he says.

“S’Imperial Center now,” says Han. “I heard the troopers talking about it.”

“Tattooine,” says Zaana. “We can drop you off on Tattooine. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yes,” says Ben.

\--

Socorro is a harsh, dusty, dry planet, and the second Padmé lands just a few klicks outside of town, she finds herself thinking of Tattooine. Socorro isn’t as dry as Tattooine, nor does it have two suns, but she remembers the heat trying to bake her alive.

She draws her hood up and holsters her blaster. Beside her, Ahsoka’s strapping her wing-pack on over her borrowed poncho, then drawing her own hood up over her head.

Anakin’s still on Alderaan, keeping an eye on both the children and testing his new prosthetic. Padmé figures he’s having fun, tinkering with himself and ordering around other people as much as he likes. Still, an extra Jedi would be nice to bring along.

“Who’s this Rosset guy, anyway?” says Ahsoka, as the two of them stroll off the ship, the ramp folding up behind them once they’ve stepped off. “I sort of remember a senator going by that name.”

“ _Former_ senator,” says Padmé. “He was dismissed during Valorum’s term, last I heard of him--word leaked out of his, ah, _proclivities_ , let’s just say.”

“What,” says Ahsoka, a corner of her mouth twitching upward, “did he get caught with his pants down while in the middle of, hm, sowing his seeds?”

Padmé makes a face. “I won’t even ask where you got that,” she mutters, but she’s sure she can blame either her husband or one of the clone troopers in the 501st. “More like somebody figured out why so many of his opponents back on his homeworld had gone missing, when they found his dungeon and the one survivor left.” And now he’s one of Palpatine’s planetary governors, which doesn’t bode well for the people of Socorro--criminals and rebels and innocents alike.

The horror dawns clearly on Ahsoka’s face. “You mean he--so _why_ is he back in politics?” she asks.

“Think about it,” says Padmé. “Palpatine says he wants peace and security for his empire, right? And Socorro’s a haven for criminals, _and_ it’s not controlled by the Hutts, so he’s free to use it as an example of a world that’s been ‘successfully rehabilitated’. And Rosset’s already proven himself to be exactly the sort of ruthless that he needs.”

Ahsoka lets out a soft sigh. “Why am I even surprised?” she mutters. “So--we go in, we steal the intel, we get out.”

“That’s the plan,” says Padmé, a hand drifting to her blaster, secured in its holster strapped to her thigh, as the two of them walk up to a safe distance to see the building rising high above the others, an Imperial banner flying ominously from the rooftop. “Easier said than done, of course,” she adds, eyeing the four Stormtroopers patrolling the perimeter.

“I’ve got an idea,” says Ahsoka, her mouth pulling back in a grin that makes Padmé think, suddenly, of Anakin.

“Not yet,” says Padmé, pulling her into an alleyway before she can charge forward to distract the guards. “Recon first. Let’s make sure we know what we’re up against.”

\--

“There’s two rebels in town,” says Zaana, sipping at her mug of beer. It’s a hot day out, and Ben’s a little bit amazed that the Stormtroopers walking the perimeter around the newly-repurposed Imperial garrison--formerly the Kovell Cantina--are still marching in the middle of the day, from all accounts. He’s even more amazed that two rebels have come in, so soon after the Empire’s takeover.

“Really?” asks Kass. “That’s a bit soon.”

“Couldn’t be anything else,” says Han, swallowing a mouthful of baked beans drowning in a red sauce that _seems_ tasty. Ben wouldn’t know, it’s not like he gets to eat rich food very often on the run. “They had hoods on. In the middle of the _day_. And I think one of them was a Togrutan.”

“Interesting,” says Zaana.

(Blue eyes, looking up at the Council members standing in judgment, a flash of green--)

“ _Stang_ , Ben,” someone says, and he blinks, lets go of the counter. Ben, that’s--that’s him, for now. “You back with us?”

“Are you all right?” someone else asks, a young boy with worried eyes.

“Yes,” he says, exhaling. “I--I’m here.” Here, behind the counter of a sunlit cantina in the middle of the day. Here, not--not staring down at a young girl accused of a crime she didn’t commit, stomach twisting in knots, nowhere _near_ the Jedi temple.

“You’re a strange man,” says Zaana.

 _That’s what happens when you spend over a year as someone’s puppet,_ he thinks. “I’ve heard worse,” he says. “So, these rebels--Han, did you get a better look at them?”

“Nah,” says Han, gesturing with his spoon. “They had their hoods up. I guess they were both kinda short, though?”

Which means Anakin Skywalker’s not with them. There’s a small comfort in that, he’s not really sure if he’s ready yet to even respond to the man. He _can’t_ confront him, not right now.

“Rebels,” says Zaana, with a sigh. “This is going to make things much harder.”

“No, no, love, this is a _good_ thing,” says Kass, with a grin. “We send the Empire’s new symbol up in flames, the rebels will see it and _pay_ us to help them out. It’s a business opportunity we can’t pass up!”

“Wait,” says Han, “what?”

“I thought we were just going after Rosset,” says Zaana.

“We are,” says Kass. “Pissing off the Empire’s just a bonus.”

“Every word out of your mouths makes me wonder why I signed up for this at all,” says Ben. “Then I remember you’re the only ones who can get me off this planet.”

“Good to know you remember that,” says Kass.

 _Good to know I actually remember something,_ he thinks. Out loud he says, “If we’re really going to be doing this, I’m going to need a layout. _Some_ of us have never been in Kovell Cantina before.”

“I have,” Han chirps. “I can draw up a map.”

“I have a man on the inside,” says Kass, and something about the way she smiles then, sharp and subtle as a hidden dagger, makes Ben think, suddenly, of--of--it slips as fast as it came, before he can even grasp it. “I can help Han out with his map.”

“You’ll need a weapon as well,” says Zaana.

“No need,” says Ben, laying out his own blaster on the counter, “I’ve got one.”

“It’s got one shot left,” says Han, skeptical. “How’re you gonna fight back with a blaster that’s only got one shot left?”

“I have my ways,” says Ben.

\--

Night falls.

“Word on the street is, there’s some rebels hanging around here,” says a Stormtrooper.

“Word on the street is as trustworthy as me when drunk,” says his comrade, waving a dismissive hand. The two of them stand in front of the back door, blaster rifles in hand. “Probably just some drunks who think they know what’s best for them.”

Something crashes loudly, just down the alleyway, sounding suspiciously like someone falling into a trash heap.

“See?” says the second Stormtrooper. “You stay here. I’ll go check it out.”

The first shrugs, waves his comrade off, and does not question it when he hears footsteps coming up behind him three minutes later.

He turns and looks up, just in time for the sole of Ahsoka’s boot to leave an imprint on his helmet.

\--

“You will let me in.”

“What in the kriffing _fuck_ are you doing?”

“You will _let me in_.”

“Like _hell_ , you star-burned fuckface. Hey, haven’t I seen you--”

A thud.

Ben sighs, and draws his hood back, a hand dropping to his side. “You really should’ve let me in,” he tells the unconscious Stormtrooper, then steps over the man.

It doesn’t take very long to force the lock to open--they haven’t had much time to upgrade their security, he thinks, hoisting the bag of explosives up onto his shoulder. He steps through, the door shutting behind him, and breathes out.

No turning back now.

He walks on, ducks behind a corner as a patrol passes him by. The lightsaber’s still heavy in his pocket, and he knows, deep in his bones, that he could cut through the next group that passes by before they could even make a sound, as easy as slicing through paper.

He doesn’t. Instead he hurries down the corridor, ducking into an alcove to consult the map for a moment. Right, he thinks, up ahead should be what _used_ to be a back room where dancers gave more private entertainment to customers who paid high enough, converted--according to Kass’s inside man--into an armory.

He pushes the door open and blinks at the hooded figure holstering a blaster, a dead Stormtrooper at its feet, the soldier’s blaster rifle just inches from his limp hand.

The figure turns its-- _her_ head, and says, “Oh.”

She says, “ _Obi-wan?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zaana and Kass are not actually mine! they're originally the background characters from [this one panel](http://bedlamsbard.tumblr.com/post/145994340733/mylordshesacactus-bedlamsbard-also-pretty) from the Han Solo comic, and the names came from my and [ladydaredevil](http://ladydaredevil.tumblr.com/)'s late-night chats (for me, I have no idea how late it usually is for her), so I can't take all the credit for them.


	5. stay thirsty like before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just the reunion left, folks, then after this we'll move on to the next part.
> 
> content warnings for aftermath, discussion and depiction of torture. nothing graphic, but the effects are there.

Of all the places Padmé ever expected to find Obi-wan Kenobi, the back room of an Imperial garrison on Socorro has never been one of them.

Yet here she is, and here he is, eyes as blue as ever, skin a little more tanned from time in the sun. How long had he been on Socorro, she wonders.

“Padmé,” he says, shocking her out of her thoughts. He doesn’t _look_ like the man in the security recording that Ahsoka and Anakin brought with them, looks more like he hasn’t slept through a whole night in a while. “What are you--What are you _doing_ here?”

“Rebelling,” says Padmé, her hand drifting to her blaster pistol, thinking of Mustafar, watching for a flicker of sickly yellow. “What about you?”

“A favor for someone who wants to help me get off this planet,” says Obi-wan, delicately putting the bag down. “I’m not here to kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m done with that.”

“What a relief,” says Padmé, wishing now that she could call Ahsoka for backup, that the Empire hadn’t gotten wise enough to put a signal jammer somewhere in their base. “So. What kind of favor do you owe this person?”

“The kind that ends in a building getting blown up,” says Obi-wan. “You?”

“If you can refrain from blowing up the building until after I can get the intel I need,” says Padmé, “that would be nice.”

“I think I can manage that,” says Obi-wan, attaching an explosive underneath a table and eyeing the dead Stormtrooper. “I don’t want to know what kind of intel this is, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” says Padmé, leading him out of the armory. “Security reasons, you understand.”

“I understand perfectly,” Obi-wan mutters, falling into step behind her. They walk together like this in silence for all of two minutes before he says, “If you’re thinking of taking a left, don’t. That’s where the previous owners used to hold--ah, some very physical activities.”

“You mean orgies,” says Padmé.

“You’ve spent a lot of time around Anakin, clearly,” Obi-wan grumbles, and Padmé whips around lightning-fast at her husband’s name. “I--sorry, I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.”

“Of course I’ve spent time with him,” she huffs, “he’s my _husband_. And you--how much do you remember? You know who I am, you know who Anakin is--”

“Very little,” says Obi-wan, cutting her off. “If nothing else, the Sith were _very_ thorough.” Obviously. She’s seen Palpatine’s handiwork, seen the Temple burning bright against the Coruscant sky and illuminating the horror on Bail’s face. She’s heard the stories from Anakin. “But some things have come back.” He breathes out and says, “I’m--sorry. Truly. For what little it’s worth.”

“For what, exactly?” says Padmé. “Because I don’t even know where to start.”

“Neither do I,” says Obi-wan, ruefully, as Padmé turns away and turns right, taking her blaster out of its holster. “I didn’t say it was worth very much.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she says. “Later.” She creeps closer to the door, looks down at the security pad, and lets out a soft breath. “I’m starting to wish I didn’t leave Artoo back on Alderaan,” she says, kneeling down to pull out Anakin’s usual tools.

“How fast can you work?” asks Obi-wan.

“Fast enough,” she says, “but stay alert. The next patrol group might come by any minute.”

“Why do you think I asked?” Obi-wan mutters, but stands close to her anyway, hand occasionally twitching near his pockets. He shuts his eyes, then says, quiet, “Five. Headed this way, they’ll come on us in--a minute or so.”

“I need three,” she hisses. She’s barely even started yet, and while she’s good at splicing, she isn’t as quick as Anakin is.

And neither of them are Artoo.

“I think I can get you two,” says Obi-wan, drawing his hood up and opening his eyes. For a moment she freezes in place, expecting yellow instead of blue, then relaxes when she sees that his eyes haven’t changed.

He gingerly sets the bag of explosives down next to her, then sets off.

She keeps working, steadfastly not paying attention to the sounds of blaster fire, to the hard thud of plastoid meeting metal, to a soft Coruscanti-accented voice drifting over to her. Something about Obi-wan’s voice, then, makes her feel--unsettled inside the building, all of a sudden. As if she _has_ to get out. She will, she tells herself, but not now. Not when she still has work to do.

Obi-wan’s back three minutes later later, kneeling next to her, eyes still blessedly blue. “They’re all unconscious,” he says, quiet, “before you ask. I--told them to get out of here, when they wake up, but I don’t know how well it worked, considering they were unconscious at the time.”

“Probably not that well,” says Padmé, just as the pad dings cheerfully and the door swings open. “All right, I’m in. Let’s go.”

\--

Rosset’s office is incredibly opulent, the rich purples of his tapestries and the many books lining his shelves a sharp contrast to the bare and pristine corridors and rooms outside. Ben’s not sure what he expected--the man’s a politician. Most of them are of the same stock.

Save for the woman beside him, hurriedly sorting through holopads and stacks of--paper?

“This Rosset must be quite old-fashioned,” he says, “if he’s using _paper_.”

“I don’t blame him,” says Padmé. “You can’t hack paper.” She skims through the stack, her eyebrows knitting together. “Oh,” she says, “he’s up to his old tricks again.”

“What old tricks?”

“Torture and murder,” says Padmé, and it’s as if the bottom’s dropped out of his stomach. “It’s what got him off the Senate and in jail in the first place.”

“Just when you think politics can’t get any lower,” he mutters, the joke sounding feeble even to him. He breathes in, breathes out, presses shaking fingers to his temples. Who is he kidding, this is probably going to be the norm for politics from here on out.

Padmé’s paused, he realizes distantly, and she’s watching him like a hawk. She has since they met up, he thinks. He can’t blame her, he left her husband maimed and unconscious on Mustafar, left a temple in flames.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” he lies.

She raises an eyebrow. “Your hand’s shaking,” she says.

“Nerves,” he says, planting an explosive underneath the desk. Two down, three more to go. The things he does to be able to run. “Did you get everything?”

“As much as I could,” she says, glancing worriedly back at the stack of paper. “Do you know where the holding area is?”

“I know what it used to be,” he says. “Dressing rooms. They must be in the back--”

\--

It’s a horrifying sight.

Padmé doesn’t stay inside for long--she’s sure that if she did, she would’ve lost her lunch. For the first time she’s glad Ahsoka’s outside and they can’t get in contact, because she’s not sure she could’ve brought herself to describe the state of the rooms, the--the people inside them, to her.

Ahsoka’s seen enough horrors, after all.

She wonders where Rosset is. Nowhere near here, she hopes--she’s not sure what she would’ve done, and she doesn’t know if Obi-wan now will be so inclined to mercy, after what they’ve seen.

One by one, the prisoners troop out, still dressed in rags. Some are limping, others are holding their arms close to their chests, still others are practically supported by their friends. Some are never coming out, she knows.

Obi-wan’s the last to emerge, even more exhausted than an hour or so ago. His eyes flicker yellow for a moment, and Padmé’s hand has already drawn her blaster before he blinks, the blue bleeding back in.

“I should really stop doing that,” says Obi-wan, holding his hands up.

“You really should,” says Padmé, lowering the blaster after a moment. “Explosives?”

“All but one planted,” says Obi-wan. “This may be the first time I’m looking forward to blowing something up,” he adds, glancing at her as if expecting someone else. Her husband, she thinks.

She raises a brow and says, “Anakin’s not here right now.”

“And thank the Force for that,” says Obi-wan, as Padmé falls into step beside him. “Things would be--awkward, to say the least.”

 _And this isn’t?_ Padmé wants to say, as they turn a corner. This reunion has been awkward, in places where it wasn’t _horrifying_ , but she has to admit, it’s nice to see Obi-wan’s still alive, and hasn’t tried to kill her yet. Out loud she says, “So where are we going?”

“There’s a room downstairs that used to hold a rather large amount of--ore of some sort, I believe, before they converted into another room that my source didn’t say much more about.” He waves a hand to the general direction of the world outside and says, “If I remember right, this started as a miners’ town first, before the general scum moved in.”

Padmé suppresses a snort of laughter. Some things haven’t changed, apparently, and Obi-wan’s disdain for criminal _scum_ seems to be one of them. “You _live here_ ,” she says.

“And I can’t get off this planet fast enough,” he says with a huff, before stopping in place and holding out a hand to keep her from turning a corner and taking the stairs down. “Hold on, I sense something.”

Padmé cranes her neck, looks around. There doesn’t _seem_ to be anyone coming from the other direction. “Where?” she asks.

Obi-wan glances upward and says, “Where’s your companion?”

“Outside, playing distraction,” says Padmé. “Anyway, the vents here are too small for her _and_ her wings.”

“Ahsoka has--” Obi-wan starts, then stops. “Oh,” he says, voice sounding small and raw. “I--she kept them? I didn’t know.”

“I hope she’s doing fine,” sighs Padmé. “Come on, then. Let’s go down.”

\--

(This is how it feels like to be Ahsoka Tano right now:

You’re _flying_. You can feel the wind on your face, on your skin, the currents lifting you up. It feels like freedom, you think.

Or it usually does.

Right now, you’re mostly concentrating too much on not getting _shot_ to enjoy that.

You twist your body in the air, dodging a barrage of blasts meant for your wings. You really need to put shields on your pack, you think, people are getting _smart_ and aiming for your wings. You can’t have that, repairing your pack was a bitch and a half even before you went on the run from an Empire with your former master, a former senator, and two adorable and loud babies. Now that you are, it’s become about--two bitches and a quarter, probably.

“Shoot her _down_ , dammit!” someone yells.

Not if you have anything to say about it. You feint right, dive left, kick the shouter in the head hard enough for him to knock into the closest Stormtrooper, then tuck into a roll as you hit the ground, wings folding back into your pack smoother than silk as you sweep your foot out, sweeping two more off their feet.

The rest get their blasters out.

You draw and ignite your lightsabers in one smooth motion, the white glow of them casting the whole street in light.

“Oh, _stang_ ,” says one, sounding horrified, “she’s a _Jedi._ ”

“Take her down!” snaps another one.

“Not anymore,” you say. “And you can _try_.”

They open fire.

Padmé asked for a distraction. So far, you’d say you’re doing a pretty good job of that, blocking and deflecting their shots and keeping them from hitting you. But you can’t do that for very long, not without one of them finally hitting, so there’s one thing for you to do.

You charge forward, vaulting over one’s shoulder to plant your foot firmly in the helmet of the trooper behind him.

Stars, you hope Padmé’s doing fine in there.

Stars, you wish you had more backup than a mysterious sniper.

Stars, you wish Anakin were here and not back on Alderaan.

One of the Stormtroopers falls. Not your fault--somebody got in a shot at them. You don’t look up at where it must’ve come from. You _can’t_ , you can’t afford to take your attention off these guys when they’re coming at you three at a time.

Well.

Two at a time, not counting the one just shot down.

“Thanks!” you yell out. You don’t look up.)

\--

Kass grins at the Togrutan girl, mowing down a whole squadron of Stormtroopers. “You’re welcome,” she says, taking her eye off the blaster rifle’s scope for a moment to look at Zaana. “She remind you of anybody, love?”

Zaana fixes a solid _look_ on her, reaches out to stroke idly along one of her spikes. “I don’t see how she can remind me of anyone, dear,” she says, “seeing as we haven’t even properly met her.”

Kass laughs softly. “All right, all right, I see your point,” she says.

“I didn’t know any Jedi survived,” says Han, peeking over the rooftop to watch the clash. Zaana grabs hold of him and pulls him back, before he can fall over the edge.

“Mm, statistically, some would’ve,” says Kass, returning her attention to her scope. “But didn’t you hear her? Said she _wasn’t_ one anymore.” And that, Kass is certain, would make for a very interesting story.

\--

He doesn’t-- _remember_ much, about the long fall. He knows screaming was involved, at least up until his throat was too raw for that. Lightning, too, judging from the last thunderstorm he went through, trying not to flinch at every jagged streak of light. Someone in a white coat standing by as he’s strapped down, writing in a clipboard after every dose of--of--

 _Don’t think about it._ Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

He wishes he could, but--there’s a man strapped down to a metal chair, in the middle of the room, shaking in his restraints, whimpering. He recognizes that man, he realizes: the braggart in the bar, the young smuggler with the lightsaber and the outrageously false claim of having fought a Jedi.

The man’s been trapped here a day, two days, at most. He can’t see any trace of the arrogance in the man now, he notes distantly, it’s as if it had been tortured out of him, along with any defiance he must’ve put up.

Padmé says, quiet, “My _gods_.”

“Compliance,” he hears someone say, and it takes him a few moments to realize that _he_ said it, his voice dull and flat. Shock, he thinks. “They simplified it, I think. It’s meant to be used on Force-users, in its more complicated form, to--break their wills more easily. To extract memories, as it were.”

“I don’t want to know how you know that, do I?” says Padmé, catching on to what he isn’t saying. Bless her, he thinks.

“No,” he says, heavily, staring at the chair, heart hammering against his chest. He wants to get out of here. He wants to pull that thing apart until it’s nothing but a smoking wreck. He wants--He _wants_. “It works on people who don’t use the Force as well, though on them it’s just--agonizing.” And he should know.

Padmé doesn’t say anything, but her lips press together into a thin, determined line. “We need to get him out,” she says.

Right. Breathe.

He can’t have his breakdown just yet.

There’s a control panel nearby, and he walks on over as Padmé hurries to the man’s side. For a moment his vision swims, and he has to close his eyes and _breathe_ again before he can get back to work.

“If only they were so helpful as to label exactly which button to press to release a prisoner,” he mutters. His own memories of the few times he ever managed to glance at the panel are scattershot, to say the least--perhaps on purpose. The Sith must’ve thought it too much of a risk that he’d figure out a way to somehow escape their grasp, for him to keep it.

“No need, I’ve got it,” says Padmé, and a small knife flips into her hand from her sleeve with practiced ease. She starts cutting into the chair’s straps with the same ease as well.

“What about the cuffs, then?” he asks, gesturing to the metal cuffs keeping the man’s arms trapped.

“Those,” she admits, “might be a bit more difficult.”

“Then I suppose I’ll deal with them,” he says, looking back down at the panel. His memory might be a ruined mess, but it’s all he has to go on right now.

(A glance to the side, he has to remember this if he stands even a chance of escaping, he _has_ to--)

\--there. The smaller button, easily missed, no bigger than his thumb. He presses down on it, and the noise of metal sliding back has never sounded more satisfying. Then, quietly, he sticks one last explosive to the panel’s underside, then hurries to Padmé’s side.

The man slumps forward into Padmé’s waiting arms, and Ben takes the man’s other side and half his weight.

“Wha--”

“It’s okay,” says Padmé, quiet. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” She gives him a warm smile, and says, “What’s your name?”

The man starts to shake, says, “This is--This is a test, isn’t it? Put me back, _please_ , I can’t--I know my place, I know, I _know_ \--”

Bile rises in his throat. “I think,” he says, to Padmé, “that was the wrong thing to ask.” To the man, he says, “This isn’t a test. I know you don’t believe me, but we really are rescuing you.” Even if they’re doing kind of a bad job at it. “You’re not going back.”

The man’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “I _have_ to,” he says, urgently. “You don’t--You don’t understand, he’ll--he’ll hurt you, he’ll make you _beg_ to hurt you, make you forget, _please_ , I won’t be trouble _I promise_ \--”

“I do,” says Ben, gently. “More than you might think. I promise you, you won’t ever have to go back there.”

The man stills for a moment, then says, “I--I don’t--”

“You just have to sleep,” he says, letting the Force slip into his words. “For a moment. Just until we can get you out of here.”

The man nods, then closes his eyes and leans further into Padmé’s side. Within minutes, they’re hauling his sleeping form up the stairs.

“That wasn’t exactly fair to him,” she says, once they’ve gotten him up.

“He needed the rest,” he says. “He’s been through enough, it’ll help him get his head back into order. He’ll be thankful for it when he wakes up, and far away from Rosset and this place as well.” He looks back at the stairs, leading to the dark, damp basement.

(A harsh light, cold metal around his wrists and his neck to keep him trapped, a pinprick in his arm, _we’ll have to up the dosage if you want him to not fight back so much sir_ \--)

“Obi-wan? Are you all right?”

He blinks against the pounding headache.

How’d he end up curled up against a wall?

“Senator,” he says.

“Not anymore,” says Padmé. She’s set the man they rescued down, he realizes, he can see the poor smuggler’s sleeping form leaning against the wall. “I’m not sure the Empire would consider a rebel on the run as a senator.” Her hand drops to his arm. “You didn’t answer my question,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he lies.

“Not from where I’m standing,” she says. “Did it have something to do with the chair?”

He nods. It’s the only thing he knows can do, he doesn’t trust himself not to break down on her right now.

“Oh, Obi-wan,” she says, soft and impossibly sad. “What did they do to you?”

It’s a good question. He knows the results, but what happened to get him there--he can’t remember. He’s not sure he wants to. “I don’t think either of us wants to know,” he says, trying for light and falling flat.

She lets out a breath. “Maybe not,” she concedes. “But--I could tell Anakin. At least so we know to be on the lookout.”

He shakes his head, says, “I--No, don’t tell Anakin you saw me. _Please_.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t talk to him,” he says. “Not right now. I don’t know what else is in my head, what traps the Sith might have laid, as a contingency.” He can’t trust his own head. As long as that’s a fact, he’s not sure if he’s safe to be around, and he remembers enough about Anakin to know how little he cares about the smaller things in life, like _personal safety._

A man who prioritized being safe wouldn’t go meet his brainwashed friend on the thin hope of somehow getting him back, after all.

“That’s fair,” says Padmé. “Okay. I’m not going to tell him. But you can’t run forever.”

“I’m not planning to,” he says. Lies, really. He’s been telling those a lot lately. “Come on, then--let’s get out of here.”

\--

The last thing Padmé sees of Obi-wan is his back as he turns away and walks towards the other exit. Beside her, the poor man stirs, the Force suggestion beginning to wear off as Padmé keys in the code to open the exits.

“Padmé!” says Ahsoka, when the doors open. She looks well enough, for someone who’s been shot at recently--the worst damage Padmé can see on her is a small scorch mark on her pack. “And--who’s that?”

“A rescue,” says Padmé. “One of Rosset’s victims.”

“Like the rest that came limping out into a back alley?” says Ahsoka. “They’re fine, by the way. They made it home safe, the Stormtroopers were a little too distracted.”

“You did admirably well,” says Padmé. “Help me get him away from here?”

“Sure,” says Ahsoka, draping the man’s free arm over her shoulders and taking half his weight off Padmé’s. “So what happened in there?”

“I ran into someone,” says Padmé, carefully neutral. “He was--helpful. Exceedingly so, in fact.”

“Another rebel?” asks Ahsoka.

“No,” says Padmé, thinking of how Obi-wan had slumped against a wall when they’d emerged from the basement, trembling as if he’d seen a ghost. She thinks maybe he did, maybe the ghost of who he used to be. “Just someone with a good reason to hate the Empire.”

“Where--What--” Oh, the man’s awake. “Your--Your friend, where--”

“Gone,” says Padmé, as she and Ahsoka half-drag, half-carry him down the street. “Somewhere safe, hopefully.” Somewhere safe, and far away from the Empire and the Sith. Somewhere without ghosts. “Inside--I asked you what your name was. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Couldn’t have,” says the man. “He--He wanted me to. Have another name. Nothing else.”

“I’m assuming this _he_ is Rosset,” says Ahsoka. “Did you--”

“I didn’t run into him,” says Padmé. Thank the gods for small mercies, she figures. “But he’ll be on the lookout for us now.”

“Him and the rest of the Empire,” says Ahsoka. “So, uh, what do you want us to call you? Sir.”

“Th--Grey,” says the man. “Rhymes with bay.”

“Okay, Grey,” says Padmé. “We’re going to take you to a place we know where you can be taken care of, all right? And I mean that sincerely. You’re going to be okay. We promise.”

“Your friend,” says Grey. “The--The bartender. Is he--”

“He’ll be fine,” says Padmé.

Ahsoka looks up at her, says, “This bartender--”

Padmé shakes her head, mouths _don’t ask me, please_. Ahsoka’s eyes narrow slightly, but she changes tack and says instead, “--he was that helpful?”

“Very,” says Padmé.

They’ve made it most of the way down the street when the Imperial garrison, formerly known as the Kovell Cantina, blows up behind them.

\--

The Empire chalks up what happened on Socorro as the actions of a terrorist rebel cell. Emphasis on the _terrorist_ and _rebel_ , emphasis on the appearance of a Togrutan woman wielding lightsabers and flying through the air with all the ease of an ace pilot, emphasis on the cool-eyed Rosset speaking of how of course the Empire would devote all efforts to stamping out such threats to the security and peace of the galaxy.

The stories that spread say differently, though. The stories talk about an angel, a woman in white and brown, and a man with a heavy weight on his shoulders. The smugglers whisper about a bartender gone missing the day after the explosion, the Stormtroopers talk about a gentle voice that still, somehow, carried Authority, the survivors grip their glasses, their children, their friends, their family in hand and whisper _we were saved_.

And on a ship bound for a cold Mid Rim planet, Anakin Skywalker, half-asleep, shoves at his wife’s shoulder as the twins’ cries crackle over the baby monitor and mumbles, “Padmé, love, it’s your turn to put them back to sleep.”

Padmé answers with a _mrrrgh_ , and shoves right back. At least she tries to, instead managing to smack his face. “You do it,” she grumbles.

“I did it for a _month_ ,” Anakin complains, getting his beloved wife’s hand out of his face. “I think it’s only fair you do it this time.”

“Fine,” Padmé says, pushing herself up to a sitting position as Anakin mashes his face back into a soft, soft pillow. “But next time it’s your turn.”

\--

“You gonna be okay here?” says Han, as he and Ben walk through the marketplace. This is going to be the last day Han’s spending on Tattooine--Kass and Zaana are stocking up back in their ship, the _Red Queen_ , and after this Ben’s going to be left here, with directions to an old hideout somewhere on the edge of the Dune Sea and enough credits to live comfortably for a few years. “I mean, it _is_ Tattooine. Shrike’s always said it was the asshole of the galaxy.”

“There’s an image,” says his hallucination of Qui-gon, striding alongside them. “Nothing’s changed at all, it would seem.”

“Yes, _thank you_ for that,” Ben mutters, trying to push the image out of his head. He wonders briefly if he could shove himself back into a chair to forget _that_.

Probably not. It hadn’t exactly been precise, and he doesn’t want to forget anything else.

“Are you, though?” asks Han, again.

Ben looks up at the twin suns. “Well, the sand in my shoes aside,” he begins, “I might be able to get used to this.”

“Besides, he won’t be alone,” adds his hallucination. Ben does not glare at him, because he’s trying to seem like he’s at least got his shit together, but it’s a very near thing.

“ _Soup!_ ” someone yells. “Getcher snake soup here! Put hairs on yer chest, guaranteed!”

“I’m never gonna see you again, huh?” says Han, as Ben takes him by the hand to guide him to the merchant.

Ben pauses, and looks back, bends down to Han’s level and says, quiet, “Maybe. Maybe not. The future isn’t set in stone, Han. We may very well meet again, one day.”

“So you’re saying you don’t know?” says Han.

“None of us does,” says Ben. Not even the Emperor, for all he talked about being able to _see_ what would come to pass. “What do you think?”

“Dunno,” says Han. “But if we do meet up next time, I think I’ll pass on the snake soup.”

Ben huffs out a soft almost-laugh and says, “You haven’t tried it yet, have you? It might just be good for you.”

“Sorry, but usually when somebody says something about hairs on my chest, they mean it tastes _terrible_ ,” says Han with a huff, as Ben stands up to guide him the rest of the way over to the cart. “I’d rather have--ugh, _ration bars_.”

“It can’t be that bad,” says Ben.

\--

“I stand by what I said,” says Han, on the ramp to Kass and Zaana’s ship. “Next time, I’ll pass on the snake soup.” He pauses, then adds, “If there is a next time.” He rocks back on his heels and says, quiet, “I’ll remember you.”

Ben smiles, soft and sad. “I think I will too,” he says.

The last time he sees Han for almost twenty years, the boy’s waving at him as the ramp rises, eyes damp with unshed tears. Then the ship takes off, leaving him and Tattooine behind.

He looks up.

The twin suns are beginning to set, painting the sky vivid hues of purple and blue.

He pulls his hood up and turns away.

It’s a long journey to make, from here to the edge of the Dune Sea.


	6. put your curse in reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so we're going to have another chapter after this. because the story refuses to _end_ when I'm asking it to.
> 
> also, cw for suicidal ideation and depictions of depression.

It takes them about eight months or so, but eventually, the twins learn to crawl. Anakin would be much more okay with this, he thinks, if it didn’t also come with the development of the twins starting to figure out their effects on the Force.

But it did, and they _are_ , and they have decided to take full advantage by pushing their baby emotions into the Force with all the subtlety of a rampaging gundark.

“Well, what did you expect,” says Ahsoka, after about the second night in a row spent awake, “they’re _your_ kids.”

“I’m subtle,” says Anakin. “I mean, I can be _very_ subtle.”

Ahsoka coughs. Actually, it sounds vaguely like a laugh, hurriedly covered up with a fake-sounding cough. “Yeah, _very_ ,” she says, and coughs again, her hand conveniently covering her mouth.

“Should we head to a medcenter?” Anakin dryly says. “I mean, you don’t sound so good, Snips.”

“Oh, no, no,” says Ahsoka, unconvincingly. “I’m fine, Anakin, really, you don’t have to.”

“You’re sure?” says Anakin, scooting closer. “I mean, you could be coming down with something, and seeing as this is a _really_ small ship with two infants onboard--”

“ _Anakin!_ ” Ahsoka huffs.

“I’m only being concerned for your health, Ahsoka,” says Anakin, keeping his face completely straight for all of five seconds before his mouth twitches upwards and gives him away.

Ahsoka rolls her eyes and bumps his shoulder. “That’s a load of bantha shit and you know it,” she says.

“You couldn’t at least pretend to believe me?” Anakin says, just as he feels a sudden spike in the Force that can only mean one thing and one thing only.

Sure enough, a second later, the twins’ crying drifts in from the room they’ve hurriedly converted into a nursery.

Ahsoka drops her face into her hands. She peeks out from her fingers just enough for Anakin to see that she’s glaring at him-- _this is completely your fault,_ the look says.

He’ll dispute that later. It takes two to make a human baby, after all, which means Padmé is also, at least partially, to blame for all of this.

\--

“You know,” says one of the few survivors of Order 66 that they’ve run into--Caldrinn, Ahsoka remembers, the Devaronian who’d only just made Knight when she left, the one who’d been hiding out in fucking _Tralus_ , of all places, “Master Kenobi would’ve been nice to have on our side.”

Anakin freezes, and Ahsoka nearly bumps into him and knocks him over into the sewer’s frankly foul-smelling water.

“Just imagine,” Caldrinn goes on, heedless of the panicked looks Ahsoka and her former master shoot at each other as he scratches the base of his horns in contemplation, “his wisdom, his strategic thinking, his steadfast loyalty to the Order--”

She looks at Anakin, remembers his maimed, prone form on Mustafar, the Temple burning against the Coruscant sky.

“--could’ve been all the more useful in these troubled days,” Caldrinn is saying, thoughtfully. “Could’ve been _invaluable_.”

“Yeah,” says Ahsoka, distractedly, thinking of a staticky holorecording, of dead bodies at her feet and the stench of burned flesh. “Could’ve been.”

“Oh,” says Caldrinn, suddenly regretful. “Kriff, I’m--sorry. He was your master, wasn’t he, Master Skywalker?”

“He was,” says Anakin, and that much is true at least. He bows his head, as if guilty, as if still grieving even now.

“I think it’s best,” says Ahsoka, hurriedly, “if we didn’t talk about Master Kenobi right now.” Her own feelings about the man are a mess, right now--he had been her friend, another mentor figure, someone she’d cared for and loved and even mourned for a time. ( _Twice_ , if she counts the Rako Hardeen incident.)

What he’s become, though, is different from the man she and Anakin mourned. The holorecording is proof of that much. What he’s become is something she’s not sure anyone can save, let alone Anakin, for all his stubborn belief.

But someone has to keep Anakin from running into trouble on his “Saving Obi-wan” Tour, and in the absence of Master Kenobi, Ahsoka supposes she’ll have to take the role on herself.

“Oh,” says Caldrinn, and he at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Anakin, with a clearly forced smile. “Hey, look! Way out.” He points upwards at the entrance. “I’ll go first, see if there’s anyone out there.”

“And if there is?” Caldrinn asks.

“I’ll signal you,” says Anakin, already getting up on the ladder and glancing back down, “by screaming like a baby and throwing myself back down here. Snips, can you--”

“I am not catching you,” says Ahsoka.

\--

He settles into a routine, after a while: get up, eat, argue with hallucination of Qui-gon about contacting Skywalker or something else (contacting Skywalker’s a common point of contention between him and his subconscious, apparently), wander out to someplace remote to meditate and possibly wreck his surroundings in the process, wander into town to buy and sell things, eat lunch, do some occasional jobs to supplement his supply of credits, go back to his hut, write in a notebook, eat dinner, sleep.

Or--well, not sleep, anyway.

“And how many nights does this one make?” says his hallucination, sounding distinctly worried. His subconscious is concerned about him, apparently.

“I don’t keep count,” he says, not looking up from his notebook. It’s filled up a quarter of the way through by now, with half-remembered dreams and blood-soaked memories sharing the same pages as dealings with the Jawas and with the merchants that don’t end half as badly. “Nice of you to try, though.”

“You do have to sleep a whole night through,” says the hallucination.

“I get enough sleep,” he says.

“Enough to keep you alive,” his hallucination allows, “but not enough to be _healthy_.”

He looks up at his hallucination then, and says, “I’m talking to a figment of my imagination instead of sleeping because I have nightmares and no mental stability, I’m _still_ on a diet of mostly fluids because anything else makes me nauseous, and I’m living in a desert miles from civilization. It’s best to say I’m as far from _healthy_ as you can get.”

“All right, you maybe have a point,” his hallucination concedes, “but it wouldn’t hurt.”

“To what, brew myself a sleeping draught?” He huffs out a bitter laugh, shakes his head. “Fat chance of that. I’ve been sedated enough times that I’ve lost any taste for doing it to myself.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” says his hallucination, a thread of worry weaving into his tone. “ _Sedated_?”

“No, I suppose you’d oppose it too,” he says, stirring his now-cold cup of tea. “You know things I don’t.”

“Yes, I am,” says his hallucination. “At least try going back to sleep.”

“I have,” he says, frustrated. “I _can’t_. Would I be here if I could be sleeping in bed without any nightmares?” Then again, would his hallucination be here if he could do that?

The hallucination folds his arms across his chest. “All right,” he says, with a sigh. “Still, it would help.”

“Next time I’ll just tell my nightmares to let me sleep,” he tells the hallucination, bitterness creeping into his tone.

\--

Rebelling’s not all rooftop chases and explosions, though the Skywalker luck, as Padmé has come to think of it, leads them to those more than once. Sometimes it’s just sitting down to talk with someone.

Granted, sometimes that someone has a blaster pointed at you, but hey, times are tough, Padmé can’t blame some people for getting paranoid and defending their homes from anyone who might invade.

“Put that down,” says Anakin, a note of danger in his tone, his hand already drifting near his lightsaber.

“It’s fine, love,” she says, keeping her eyes on the Twi’lek woman behind the door as she lowers her hand. “Suu Lawquane?”

“Who are you?” Suu asks, the blaster steady in her hands.

“Someone who can help you and your family,” says Padmé. “I know Cut’s--sick, right now. My contact told me he might be, because of his chip.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Suu says.

“Nothing,” says Anakin. “Nothing that could be harmful. I _promise_ \--”

“You’re a Jedi,” says Suu, “what _good_ will your promises do us?”

Anakin flinches back, as if struck. Padmé steps forward and says, “He’s a Jedi, but I’m not. I used to be a senator, and I know someone who can help your husband.”

“ _How_?” Suu demands.

“All clones have a chip in their heads,” says Anakin. “Allegedly it was to tone down aggressive behavior, but it was actually because the Chancellor was playing both sides of the war like violins. Your husband--the chip’s affecting him even worse because he’s trying to _fight_ it.”

“I see,” says Suu, lowering her blaster. “Is there a way to take it out of his head, then?”

“That’s what we came here to offer you,” says Padmé. “In return, we just want one thing.”

“What?”

She smiles. “You know this planet. You know the locals. We need people. Who here _despises_ the Empire?”

\--

From crawling, Leia learns how to sneak herself and her brother out of their crib.

“I could _swear_ you two were in _bed_ ,” says Ahsoka, glaring blearily up at them. Somehow, the twins have made it up onto the ship’s conservator, though Luke’s sporting a bruise and is sniffling still.

Leia doesn’t even have the _decency_ to look sheepish or apologetic, she just keeps munching on her mashed banzon as if Ahsoka’s not even there. Ahsoka can practically feel her and her twin’s defiant smugness in the Force. She’s pretty sure they’re doing this on purpose. No, scratch that, they _are_.

“Ahsoka?” Padmé says, poking her head into the ship’s kitchen.

Then she looks up and says, much more alarmed, “Luke! Leia! Get _down_ from there!”

“What’s going on?” says Anakin, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Oh.”

“Baba _ba_ ,” says Luke, crawling towards the edge. Ahsoka springs forward just as Luke begins to wobble, catching him just as he topples over. “ _Ba!_ ” he cheers once he’s in her arms, and Ahsoka breathes out a sigh of relief, adjusting her hold on him to let him grab hold of one of her lekku and jam it into his mouth.

“We have got to childproof the ship better,” says Padmé, a note of relief in her tone as she takes Luke, still babbling happily away, from Ahsoka’s arms. Ahsoka glances away, to find Anakin leaning up on his toes to take Leia off her perch on the conservator.

“Should’ve known you two were up to something when we got more than three hours of sleep,” says Anakin, as Leia gently hits his cheek with her fist, still covered in mashed banzon. “How’d you even get out of your crib?”

“The Force,” says Ahsoka, dryly.

“They’re _eight months_ ,” says Padmé.

“They’re _your kids_ ,” says Ahsoka. “How are you both surprised that they’re regular rulebreakers?”

“ _Regular_ ,” says Anakin, with a huff.

Ahsoka turns to look at him. “You’re the one who got married,” she says. “While you were still _in the Order_.”

“Okay, you have a point,” Anakin concedes, as Leia reaches up to try and grab his hair. “Ow! Leia, let _go_ \--”

“What’s going on here?” says Suu, blearily poking her head into the kitchen. Behind her leg is one of her children--Jek, Ahsoka thinks, the younger one. “Is everyone all right?”

Ahsoka waves a hand, and says, “We’re fine. Just--twins, y’know.”

“Oh,” says Suu. “I had much the same trouble with my children--count yourself lucky they’re not two yet.”

“Something to look forward to,” says Padmé, bleakly. “I’m blaming you for this, you know.”

“No way,” says Anakin, “this is at least _half_ your fault. Back me up here, Snips, come on--”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes, says, “You know what, I think I can hear somebody hailing us from the cockpit.” She walks away, patting Jek on the head, and says, “See you later, Skydad!”

She can’t hold in her laugh, when Anakin’s outraged cry reaches her ears.

\--

Some mornings, it’s a lot harder than usual to get up. Or to tell himself to get up, anyway.

It’s not even that the bed is particularly enticing or soft. It’s lumpy in places, the best mattress he could stand to buy, but at least it’s a bed and not the ground. It’s not even that he wants to go back to sleep--he hardly ever succeeds in going back to sleep, anyway, so he doesn’t even try.

He just--can’t.

Days like those, the blaster, tucked safely away somewhere, starts to seem like a good idea. Just one shot, quick and painless, and then he won’t _be_ , anymore.

If he could make himself move, anyway.

Days like those, moving is just--too much.

This is one of those days, he thinks, and turns over and shuts his eyes. Better the back of his eyelids than the ceiling, he thinks, at least he can pretend to have slept a little.

“One of those days?”

And there’s the hallucination again, popping up as always at truly inconvenient times. Sometimes he hates his subconscious and its sense of timing.

“Go away,” he mumbles, turning over and burying his face in a pillow. It’s not a very nice pillow, but at least it’s a pillow.

“At least eat,” says his hallucination.

“ _Go away._ ”

“Tempting, but no,” says his hallucination, sounding as kindly as possible. He starts seriously considering picking up a pillow and throwing it at his hallucination before deciding not to. It won’t do anything, and moving to pick up a pillow seems like _too much_.

“Just,” he starts. Stops. Sighs into his pillow. “Leave,” he says, frustration bleeding out of his whole body, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a gnawing hunger.

“If I leave,” says his hallucination, “will you eat?”

He lifts his head up from the pillow, summons up just enough anger, dull as it is, to glare blearily at his hallucination, still glowing blue and watching him, concerned. “Just _leave_ ,” he says.

“Eat first,” says the hallucination.

“If I do that,” he says, reluctant, “are you going to leave?”

“As soon as you’re done,” says the hallucination, with great sadness in his tone.

He breathes out, then pushes himself up off the pillow and swings his legs off the bed. Movement is--complicated, he thinks, somewhere in the hazy fog he’s in, and cooking something from scratch is just too much right now, but he manages to reheat the leftover soup from last night and then force down a bowl full of it.

By the time he’s finished, his hallucination’s still there, watching him with sad eyes.

“We had a deal,” he says, but there’s no real bite behind it--he’s too tired, the sort of tired that’s seeped into his very bones, the sort of tired that wraps around his mind like a fog of exhaustion, numbing everything else.

“We did,” says the hallucination, “but I’ll come back. Tonight, perhaps.”

“You always do,” he says. His hallucination is probably the only constant he can talk to, for all that they argue sometimes, and he has to admit, he feels--oddly bereft, without the hallucination nagging him in Qui-gon’s voice.

The hallucination smiles, soft and sad. In the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

The man left behind lets out a breath, then slumps back in his chair and closes his eyes.

\--

“You know,” says a young woman, a few days later, as he’s perusing through her meager goods, “you kind of remind me of someone.”

“Really?” he asks, taking care to sound somewhat interested even as alarm bells start ringing in his head. He has to stop being so paranoid, he thinks.

“Yeah,” says the girl, “if you trimmed your hair back and cleaned up a little, you’d look kind of like--like--I forget his name, but he used to show up on the news a lot. What we could get of the news out here, anyway.”

“Mm, I don’t really think so,” he says. “I suppose I just happen to have one of those faces.”

“I guess,” says the girl, airily, before she glances to the side, her eyes widening before they narrow to a glare and she snatches up a knife. “Oh, _bantha fodder_ , not you again-- _hey!_ Pay up first, you fucking _sleemo_!”

He slips away in the ensuing argument, dropping a few credits onto the sill before he escapes, the vaporator parts in a bag. He doesn’t think about who the girl must’ve seen in his appearance, for a moment.

General Kenobi’s been dead for nearly two years now, after all. He’s just whatever’s left.

And he’s still got a vaporator to repair.

\--

The twins are a year old when they both come down with a fever, and a year and a day when Anakin nearly crashes the ship in his haste to get them to the nearest medcenter to Alderaan.

Padmé can hardly blame him for hurrying--it’s already bad enough seeing her babies in pain, but to _feel_ that pain through the Force must be something else entirely. She can also hardly blame him for taking more shifts than he should, keeping an eye over them, because she’s doing the same thing.

It takes three sleepless, worry-filled days, but eventually the twins’ fever breaks, though it takes Luke another day before he’s back to babbling as usual, especially towards Artoo.

“Oh, I’m so glad Master Luke and Mistress Leia are well again!” C-3PO’s enthusing, as Padmé walks in on Anakin patiently rewiring the back of the protocol droid’s head in the hangar bay--something about updated parenting guides, apparently, though why they couldn’t do it somewhere else and some _time_ else escapes her. “I must admit, I was incredibly worried for their chances when you came here.”

“Yeah, buddy, I was scared too,” says Anakin. “Everyone was.”

“Hey, Ani,” says Padmé, tiredly, leaning against the doorway. “Hi, Threepio.”

“Mistress Padmé!” C-3PO exclaims, throwing his arms up ( _whoa, there, calm down_ ). “Oh, it’s so _good_ to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” says Padmé, straightening up and smiling a little. “Can I talk to Ani? Just for a bit.”

“Why, certainly,” says C-3PO, “the updates to my parenting protocols are nearly finished, you need only wait a minute or two.”

“Parenting protocols,” says Padmé with a huff, looking at Anakin.

“We’re new and we’re gonna need all the help we can get,” says Anakin, waving a screwdriver. “Also your friend Bail kicked me out of the twins’ room. Apparently, I hover too closely.”

“So that’s why you’re here,” she says.

“Master Bail was worried for the twins’ health,” says C-3PO, “as they have only just recovered, Master Anakin’s constant presence increases their chances of reinfection by--”

“Threepio, old pal, you already said that,” says Anakin, his nose scrunching up. It’s _adorable_. “Twice.”

“And both times you didn’t let me finish,” says C-3PO, reproachfully, as Anakin shuts the back of the droid’s head closed. “Oh! Are we finished now?”

“Yep,” says Anakin. “And, uh, can you check if--”

“There is a .00003245% chance that there has been any change in the twins’ condition since you last checked on them an hour ago, Master Anakin,” says C-3PO. “But I certainly will!”

“I checked on them five minutes ago, Ani,” says Padmé, as C-3PO walks off. “They’re fine. At least I hope they are.”

“They have to be,” says Anakin. “I just--”

“You’re scared,” says Padmé.

He nods.

“I’m scared too,” she confesses, stepping closer to take his hand. “I’ve been scared for them since we got here.” She huffs out a soft breath, hands drifting upward to tug Anakin in closer by his elbows. “Bail almost threw me out when I last dropped by. He said I was almost as bad as you.”

“Nah, you’re not that bad,” says Anakin, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. She lets out a soft sigh, resting her head against his chest, basking in his warmth and the steady sound of his heartbeat, near her ears.

She’d almost lost that.

“They’re going to be okay,” she says, her voice slightly muffled.

“You know,” says Anakin, “I think I’m finally starting to believe that.”

She lets out a breath and says, “Ahsoka got a message, by the way. From a pirate--Bells, I think her name was?” Strange name for a pirate, Padmé thinks.

“Oh, her,” says Anakin, stepping away first, leaning on a crate. “Ahsoka and I ran into her on Rizel. What was it about?”

“She says she has information that the Rebellion might want to know,” says Padmé. “She’s asking to meet with you and Ahsoka, as soon as possible.”

She doesn’t have to be Force-sensitive to see the conflict in Anakin--she knows why his eyes widen like that, why he sucks in his suddenly unsteady breath. “I can’t,” he says. “Luke and Leia--I have to be there. I can’t _leave_ them, Padmé, you’re asking too much of me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” says Padmé, stepping forward again. “I don’t want you to leave either--Luke and Leia need you, and _I_ need you, but the Rebellion _needs_ this information.”

“So send Ahsoka!” says Anakin. “She’s the one pirates seem to like, between the two of us.”

Padmé takes his left hand, for a half-second expecting flesh instead of metal. Nearly a year since Mustafar and that still happens. “Your friend Bells,” she says, “said to meet her on Tattooine. You know Tattooine better than Ahsoka does.”

Anakin’s brow furrows, and he lets go of Padmé’s hand. “This just keeps getting better and better,” he says. “Tattooine, of all places--what about Luke and Leia? I can’t leave them, you know that.”

“I do,” says Padmé, “which is why I’m staying here with them. I’ll send you regular updates, with _pictures_ if I must.”

“But what if--”

“Ani,” says Padmé, conviction in her tone, linking her hands behind Anakin’s neck, “they’re going to be okay. I’ll be here, keeping an eye on them.”

Anakin, at last, breathes out, rests his forehead against hers.

\--

Tattooine is as sandy and as hot as ever, but this time they haven’t crash-landed in the middle of the desert, so Ahsoka’s pretty sure this mission is already going much better than the last time they were on Tattooine.

She tells Anakin this, and he frowns and says, “It’s a little too early to call it better than the last time. We might run into a _Hutt._ ” And here his lips purse and his brow furrows, and now that Ahsoka knows more details about his life before entering the Jedi Order, she can see why he’s so reluctant to come back here, why he hates the Hutts so much. “Or someone working for the Hutts,” he adds.

Artoo gives a few short beeps, eliciting a laugh out of Anakin. “Yeah, buddy,” he says, “we’ll be careful. Just stay with the ship, all right? If a sandstorm comes in, get out of here and don’t worry about us.”

Artoo swivels his head around in a burst of beeps, then rolls over to the dashboard and plugs himself in. Ahsoka huffs out a laugh and pats him on the dome, then turns to look at Anakin, who’s bringing out the cloaks they’ll have to use while out and about.

Ahsoka’s got no illusions about how much money she and Anakin might fetch, if caught. Two of the last Jedi, for all that she’s not one anymore, two of the most wanted traitors to the Empire? They’re guaranteed a one-way trip to Coruscant, if they get caught.

So they just have to not get caught.

Which is a lot easier said than done, because not getting caught means leaving behind their lightsabers, her wing-pack, anything that someone might associate with the Jedi Order.

And damn it, Ahsoka feels more than a little bit naked without her lightsabers.

“We’ll be in and out, don’t worry about it,” says Anakin, mouth turning upwards in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We just meet up with Bells, get whatever information she has out of her, then hop back onboard and go back to Alderaan. Simple as that.”

“Oh, yeah, real simple,” says Ahsoka.

“I sense a great deal of sarcasm coming from you, young one,” Anakin intones, in his most serious tone.

Ahsoka punches his arm, then draws her hand back with a hiss, shaking it out. Right, all his limbs are metal now. “I just have a bad feeling about this,” she says. “Or--not exactly bad? Just weird.”

“The meeting?” says Anakin, frowning. “We could call it off and go back to Alderaan. Padmé would be angry, but if you’ve got a feeling something might go wrong--”

“Not the meeting,” says Ahsoka. “But--something else, though I can’t put my finger down on what it is, exactly.” She sighs, throws the cloak on, and tugs it up and over her head. “It’s probably nothing,” she says.

“Let’s hope so,” says Anakin, throwing on his cloak and yanking the hood up over his head, then leading her out onto the ramp. “Welcome to Mos Espa, Snips,” he says, sardonic, nodding towards the city--well, _almost_ -city--just a few klicks away. “It’s a hive of scum and villainy. Keep your hands on your valuables if you want to keep them.”

“The hands or the valuables?” Ahsoka dryly says.

“Valuables,” says Anakin, after a moment’s thought. “Though keep an eye on the hands too.”

Ahsoka falls into step beside him, trying not to mind the two suns shining down on them both. It’s _hot_ here, she’d known that before, but now she knows: she’s forgotten just how hot this place could get.

“You know,” she says, “there’s a lot of sand around.”

Anakin answers with an _ugh_. “It’s going to be so much fun getting all this sand out of my joints,” he says, shaking out a gloved hand. “ _Not._ I swear, when I see Bells, I’m going to--I don’t know what, exactly, but it’s gonna be painful.”

\--

Mos Espa, Ahsoka quickly finds, is exactly the sort of place where a pirate like Bells would feel right at home, even with the occasional Stormtrooper hanging around, the harsh sunlight glinting off their white armor.

“Doesn’t seem like the Emperor’s very concerned about Tattooine,” says Ahsoka, as they walk past a Stormtrooper arguing heatedly with a Twi’lek shopkeeper. “I’ve only seen, what, three troopers so far?”

“Why would he be,” Anakin mutters, tone full of venom and spite, his anger flaring bright in the Force, “he probably worked out a deal with Jabba.”

“For what?”

Anakin shrugs, helplessly. “Access to the Outer Rim hyperlanes? Financial support for his endeavors? Manual labor he doesn’t have to pay? Kriff if I know, Snips.” There’s a bitter note to his tone as he adds, “Kriff if I knew anything about Palpatine at all.”

Ahsoka steps closer, nudges his side with her elbow. “He fooled everyone,” she says, quiet. “Even the Council. Even the whole Senate. No one _knew_.”

“I should’ve,” says Anakin. “I was _close_. At least I thought I was.”

“I doubt he was ever close to anyone,” says Ahsoka, then she nudges him again, jerks her head up towards the nearby cantina. “Hey, we’re here.”

“Just in time,” says Anakin, stepping up to the doors, just as a Trandoshan bouncer steps into his path. “Move,” says Anakin.

“Nope,” says the bouncer. Ahsoka holds in a snort of laughter, because with his new prosthetics, Anakin’s at least a head taller than the bouncer. “Why should I?”

Ahsoka steps in between them and says, “Because we’re here to meet a friend of ours.”

“Might be I know this friend,” the Trandoshan allows, “but I know a lot of people. Who’s this friend of yours?”

“She calls herself Bells,” says Ahsoka.

“Dark hair, eyes like gold, once started a three-street brawl?”

“...yes,” says Ahsoka.

“Yeah, she’s waiting,” says the bouncer, stepping aside to let her and Anakin in. “Nice scar, pal.”

Anakin shoots the Trandoshan a deadly glare, then turns back to Ahsoka. “Watch yourself, Snips,” he murmurs, “this is a hive of scum and villainy.”

“Yeah, I kinda noticed, and you said that already,” says Ahsoka, looking around at the dim, smoky cantina, the patrons looking warily at the new arrivals before turning back to their drinks, the man mixing drinks behind the bar and eyeing them with a suspicious look. This, she thinks, would be exactly the place where a pirate would feel right at home.

But she’s not a pirate, so she feels out of place, cut loose, adrift, as she and Anakin move deeper inside. It’s a depressingly familiar feeling.

“Maker,” someone says, and Ahsoka and Anakin spin around to find a young Twi’lek woman, bearing a drink tray. “If you were hoping to not be suspicious, you should’ve ditched the cloaks. They practically _scream_ suspicious.”

“Did we ask?” Anakin says, his tone low and dangerous, stepping in front of Ahsoka, one hand curling into a fist.

The Twi’lek just grins up at him. Ahsoka’s kind of impressed at how nonchalant she seems to be. “No, but Bells says she could see you two coming from a mile away,” she says, and Ahsoka relaxes. “I have to say, she’s wrong on that. I could see you two coming from _three_ miles away.”

“You’re a regular comedian,” says Anakin, dryly. “Where is Bells? Why couldn’t she come out to talk to us herself?”

“ _She_ ,” chimes in a familiar, feminine voice, just behind Ahsoka, “was busy locking down a deal with Ohnaka, since he’s been in such dire straits lately and _some people_ and their bleeding hearts have been terrible influences on her.”

“You love it, though,” says the Twi’lek with a grin, as Ahsoka turns to find Bells sauntering up to them, snatching up a cup off the tray and turning to the two of them with a slight flourish. “Introduce me to your friends?”

“Of course,” says Bells, gesturing to a corner table in a particularly dark area. “If you’ll come this way?”

Ahsoka falls into step behind her, Anakin’s heavy footfalls echoing a step or two behind her. She keeps her eyes straight ahead, on Bells, trusting Anakin to let her know, either out loud or through their bond, of any danger that might crop up.

Nothing so far.

She hopes they can keep it that way.

\--

The Mos Espa market, most days, tends to be loud and rough and rowdy--vendors trying to outdo each other in terms of volume, children chasing each other and weaving in between the crowds and the stalls, the occasional fight to the death that seems to count as street entertainment.

For a hermit, it’s not the best of places to be, which is why he tries not to come into town very often, but his pantry’s looking far barer than it should be today.

There are Stormtroopers milling about, is one of the first things he notices. Not many of them, certainly, and Jabba’s ill-concealed thugs and the general scum populating the seedier parts of the marketplace still outnumber them six to one, but they’re enough to set him on edge.

He ducks his head, as two pass by, chatting idly to each other about rations and families. Neither of them notice, and he gives a soft, relieved sigh, hoisting his little bag of goods up onto his shoulder.

Someone calls _hey, old Ben_ from their stall, and he looks up and nods at them, then continues on his way, tugging his hood downwards to hide his face a little more as one of Jabba’s goons passes by.

He walks on, and neatly steps to the side as three children come barreling down towards him, laughing and whooping. His lightsaber is heavy in its hiding place inside his pouch, and for a moment he thinks of--

\--he tamps down on the thought.

He keeps going, eyes downcast.

Then he stops.

_Oh, no._

Skywalker’s on Tattooine. He knows that signature, like a thunderstorm in the Force, even as diminished as it is now (and he knows who is responsible for that, for how dim it’s become when compared to the supernova it used to be). He knows it better than he knows himself, some days.

It flares bright now in his perception of the Force, as brilliant as a distant star. Skywalker is _here_ , on this planet, in this town, just close by. Their tattered bond practically _sings_ , as faint as it is, with Skywalker just-- _being_ here.

Mustafar bubbles up in the back of his head, Skywalker’s blue eyes looking up at him, Skywalker pleading from the bank before the lava could rise and consume him, Skywalker’s unconscious weight in his arms.

He ducks into an alley, leans against a wall, and lets the memories resurface, faded and fragmented. An icy mountain, a gloved hand reaching out to him, a long fall--

\-- _ten to your nine._

 _Cato Nemoidia still doesn’t count_ \--

He breathes. In, out. _Let go._

Okay. Okay, Skywalker’s on Tattooine. But so far Skywalker hasn’t sought him out yet, and he has no illusions about what the man would do if he’d known Ben was here. Whatever reason Skywalker might have for coming here, it’s got nothing to do with a hermit living on the edge of the Dune Sea.

He walks down the alleyway, turns the corner--

\--“Obi-wan?”


	7. i think you're my best friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. the final update! it only took me three months and multiple rewrites.

Of all the places Anakin expected to find Obi-wan Kenobi again, a dusty back alley next to a Mos Espa cantina’s definitely not one of them.

Yet here they are.

Ahsoka must be having a hell of a time getting information out of Bells right now, he thinks. He’s not sure, he’d stepped out through the back door for some air after another murder that nobody’d paid attention to, something he’d almost forgotten was a fact of life on this dustball of a planet.

And Obi-wan is--

Obi-wan is turning around on his heel, and Anakin’s feet are in motion before his brain can catch up to him and say, _uh, Skywalker, you don’t have any organic limbs left and you’re on Tattooine, maybe slow it down a little bit?_

But if he slows down, Obi-wan will leave again, and Anakin can’t--Anakin _won’t_ let that happen, he’s let it happen before and it’s been so, so long since he last saw him--

“Wait, Obi-wan,” he says, “ _wait_ \--”

He only means to grab hold of Obi-wan’s shoulders.

He doesn’t mean to send them both crashing to the ground, but that’s something he’ll chalk up to his prosthetics needing fine-tuning and a good thorough cleaning later, when he’s off this planet and Obi-wan isn’t trying to push him off.

And it’s definitely Obi-wan--the hair might be longer, the beard less trimmed, but he knows his old master’s face.

And--

\--his eyes are blue.

“Um,” says Anakin, intelligently.

Obi-wan raises a brow, and for a moment Anakin almost expects him to say something about how surely he deserves more than an _um_. Instead, though, he just says, “Can you get off of me? You’re a bit heavy.”

A _bit_. “Are you going to run off on me?” Anakin says, instead. He can feel Ahsoka probing along their bond, wondering about the sudden spike of emotion in the Force. “Because I haven’t seen you in over a _year_ , Master.”

Obi-wan freezes under him, and Anakin catches the briefest flicker of yellow in his eyes. Hard not to, considering how close they both are to each other. “Just--” he starts, then stops. “Don’t call me that,” he says.

“What?” says Anakin. “Which one?”

“Are you going to get off me _now_ , or--”

Anakin scrambles backward, shaking his hands out and letting out a quiet curse. Great, now there’s sand in his gloves, that’s going to be so much fun to clean out. “Don’t leave,” he says.

Obi-wan, who’s already getting up and brushing himself off, raises a brow. Now that Anakin’s not so close to him, he can see how much thinner Obi-wan seems to be, skin tanned from the twin suns, dark circles under his eyes speaking to a number of sleepless nights. “Well, I can’t leave just _yet_ ,” he says, sounding a little irritated, “now that everything I’ve bought is scattered all over the place.”

Anakin pauses, and glances around. There’s a lot of things strewn all over the place, he realizes--canned perishables, used vaporator parts, slightly dusty clothes, an excess of cloaks. “You still lose a lot of cloaks, huh?” he says, getting to his feet and picking up some of the things that’s been scattered around them.

“It pays to be prepared,” says Obi-wan, evasive.

“So you _do_ still lose cloaks,” says Anakin, triumphant. “Wait till I tell Ahsoka--”

“You brought someone with you?” Obi-wan interrupts, holding his bag out for Anakin to dump what he’s picked up in.

“Uh, yeah,” says Anakin. “You remember Ahsoka, right?” He pauses for a moment, remembering sickly yellow eyes, _no, I don’t._ The memory sends a small shudder down his spine, try as he might to suppress that first instinct. “Or maybe not,” he amends, seeing the blank look on Obi-wan’s face. “But you know me.”

_You remembered me._

“No, I--” Obi-wan starts, as if to protest, then stops. “Somewhat,” he says. “I remember bits and pieces about you. Mostly secondhand information.” He shrugs, bends down to pick up a few more vaporator parts that’s fallen into the dust.

Anakin takes the part from him, metal fingers brushing against Obi-wan’s organic fingers, eyes catching sight of a brief flinch, and says, “No, get a new filter, that one’s crap,” as casually as possible. “Secondhand?”

“My--The Count spoke of you,” says Obi-wan. “You were a common subject of his tirades, now that I think about it. He never quite understood why the Chancellor--why the _Emperor_ seemed to want you so much.”

“Wonder why,” says Anakin, dryly, but he feels like he’s just been punched in the gut. Had Obi-wan recognized his name, even in the midst of Dooku’s grand and grandly empty speeches? Had he wondered why his best friend hadn’t come to rescue him? Had he been too far gone, by then, to find the sound of Anakin’s name even vaguely familiar?

“Hey, uh, that’s a lot of vaporator parts,” he says instead, trying to steer the subject away to something he at least knows fairly well, something that doesn’t make him feel like he’s carving out his own heart with a malfunctioning vibroblade.

“I’m doing a lot of vaporator repairs,” says Obi-wan. “And replacements, in some cases.”

“Well, Ahsoka and I are here anyway,” says Anakin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “We could look your vaporators over, once she’s done with this meeting. Or, well, I could, but we’re kind of a package deal.”

“No, no,” says Obi-wan, shaking his head and stepping back as if ready to leave. “I--You don’t need to bother on my behalf, I can look after the vaporators myself.”

“But I--” Anakin starts. _I haven’t seen you in so long._

“Anakin,” says Ahsoka, stepping out of the back door, “Bells says we can-- _Master Obi-wan?_ ”

That flinch again, before Obi-wan’s face smooths over into a calmly neutral expression. “You must be Ahsoka,” he says. “I’ve heard about you.”

“I guess they really did do a number on you,” says Ahsoka, her tone equally neutral. She steps up, steps closer to Anakin’s side, her hand drifting near where her lightsaber would be, if they hadn’t left most of their weapons in the ship. _You okay?_ she sends, her mental voice full of concern.

_I’m fine,_ Anakin assures her. _Don’t scare him off._

_Skyguy,_ she shoots back, her mental voice wry, _have you seen you?_

“That’s what happens when you spend time with--where I was,” says Obi-wan. “But I’m taking up too much of your time, I’m afraid, so I’ll just--leave.”

“No, wait, _wait_ ,” blurts Anakin, stepping forward and catching Obi-wan’s hand in his, “you don’t _have_ to--”

Obi-wan freezes in place, and the panic that bursts forth from him like a flash flood in the Force is almost overwhelming, enough that Anakin doesn’t resist when Obi-wan yanks his hand away, eyes flickering a sickly yellow before settling back on blue. Ahsoka’s there in an instant, stepping in between him and Obi-wan.

“What was _that_?” she demands.

“What was what?” Obi-wan asks.

“What you did!” She flaps a hand out. “In the Force--what were you trying to do, knock us out? And your _eyes_ \--”

“Snips,” says Anakin, setting a hand on her shoulder to hold her back before she can get into Obi-wan’s personal space. “What did you do?” he asks Obi-wan.

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t really know?” says Obi-wan, resigned. “Because I don’t _know_ what I did.”

“I think you do,” says Ahsoka, and she’s grown enough in the time she’s been away from the Order that she doesn’t have to crane her neck quite as much to look up at Obi-wan. “I think at least you have _some_ idea.”

“Yes, I do, somewhat,” Obi-wan concedes, “but it wasn’t my intention to do it--to _push_ like that.”

“Well,” Anakin says, “that’s one step above Luke and Leia.”

Obi-wan blinks owlishly at them for a moment, before understanding dawns on his face. He huffs out a sigh, says, “Your children?”

Anakin can’t help it--he straightens up, pride and love for his twins blooming warm in his chest. “Yeah,” he says.

“Have you been telling him about Luke and Leia?” asks Ahsoka, narrowing her eyes up at him.

“He’s been trying,” says Obi-wan.

“Gee, thanks,” mutters Anakin.

Ahsoka throws her hands up and snaps, “I can’t believe you! I’m willing to accept brainwashing as an explanation for--for _everything_ , but Anakin, he _cut your limbs off_. You don’t tell somebody who maimed you about _your infant children_.”

Anakin bristles, and says, “Look, I get it, you don’t trust him--”

“I don’t trust whatever’s in his head, no,” says Ahsoka, crossing her arms and glaring defiantly up at him. “I don’t know if you remember what happened the last time you two met, but I had to fly you back to the ship because you couldn’t even get there with just the one hand.”

“She does have a point,” says Obi-wan, mildly. “You really should be more careful.”

“I _am_ careful,” says Anakin.

It’s almost creepy, how both Obi-wan and Ahsoka narrow their eyes at him in judgment at nearly the same time.

“Excuse me,” someone calls from the cantina’s back entrance, and all three of them turn to see Maran, her arms crossed and her head-tails twitching, “am I interrupting anything? Because Bells and I do need to leave in a few hours, and I’m fairly certain your people want to know how to get to Thabeska without alerting the Empire you’re there.”

Ahsoka lets out a breath. “We’re coming,” she says.

Anakin glances at Obi-wan, whose eyes are fixed on Maran, his brows knitting together in worry. “I meant it,” he says. “What I said earlier, about the vaporators.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Obi-wan, snapping his gaze back to Anakin as he starts to step away from the alley, “but I also meant it when I said you didn’t need to bother.”

“You’re right,” Anakin concedes, “I don’t need to. But I _want_ to.”

“Hate to break it up, boys,” says Maran, tilting her head, “but time’s a-wasting!” She nods to Obi-wan, and says, “You should come in, Ben.”

“Ben?” says Ahsoka.

Obi-wan sighs. “I can’t, I have a vaporator--”

“That can keep,” says Maran. “You know, I never got to thank you for that ship.” She clucks her tongue, much like a disapproving mother, and says, “I mean, you slipped away so rudely, and with hardly a word! Maker, Ben, at least let a girl know you’re not _dead_ , give her the chance to thank you for boosting her business.” She straightens up, squints at Obi-wan and says, “Also, you look like a sarlacc’s dinner after it’s through with it.”

“She’s right, you know,” says Anakin. “You look _terrible_.”

Obi-wan looks between all three of them, eyes darting from Anakin to Ahsoka to Maran. “I’m not going to get out of here any time soon, am I?” he says, resigned. “Fine. But only for a few minutes.”

\--

“So how do you know him?” Maran asks, bright eyes flashing in the darkness. Obi-wan and Ahsoka are taking up the rear behind them, and Anakin occasionally glances back, almost afraid that Obi-wan might slip away again when they’ve only just met back up.

Anakin blinks at her, looks at her too-innocent expression. There is no way a grown woman can pull that off convincingly, but he does have to give Maran points for trying.

“Uh,” says Anakin. “It’s a long story, but--he taught me.”

Maran glances back at Obi-wan. “You were his padawan?” she asks.

“How do you know about that?” Anakin asks.

“My sister was in the Jedi Order,” says Maran, a hand anxiously rubbing at one of her lekku. “I don’t know where she is now. On the run, perhaps, though it would be nice if she’d send a letter every so often.”

_Your sister might be dead,_ Anakin doesn’t say. Instead he forces a reassuring smile, and tries not to think about a lone Jedi’s chances of surviving in a galaxy trying its hardest to wipe them all out. “She might, if she’s somewhere safe,” he says.

Maran’s eyes flick towards him. “Is anywhere safe for a Jedi?” she asks, lowly.

“Point,” Anakin concedes. Not even Alderaan’s completely safe, though it’s overwhelmingly sympathetic towards the cause of galactic freedom. “But--yes. I was his padawan.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

Anakin breathes out, thinks of speeding ships and his best friend slipping from his fingers. “I let him down,” he says, softly.

\--

(This is how it felt like to be Anakin Skywalker, after the fall:

Obi-wan’s scream still rings in your head, long after you and the clones capture Cylo and kill his droid bodyguards.

You can still hear the awful crack of the railing breaking, your own desperate voice pleading for him to reach out just a little more and take your hand, and that horrible scream. You can still see the trust in Obi-wan’s eyes, the faith that you--his student, his friend, the knight you’ve become--could bring him back onboard, bring him _home._

And now you’re back on the Republic cruiser, with nothing left of Obi-wan save his lightsaber.

You turn it over in your hands, the weight of it comforting, familiar. The design of it’s similar to yours, hanging heavy from your belt, though Obi-wan’s lightsaber is much less heavier than something designed to be held in your durasteel hand.

_All things die, Anakin Skywalker,_ the dead-star dragon curled around your heart whispers. _Even stars burn out._

Rage and grief, black and bitter, rise up in your chest, claw at the inside of your throat. What good are you, if you can’t save the people you love the most? What kind of _Chosen One_ are you, failing Ahsoka, failing Obi-wan, failing _everyone_? _What good are you?_

“Ani?”

You blink. You’ve fallen to your knees, you realize, and you’ve thrown Obi-wan’s lightsaber clear across the room. But your commlink, the private one that only one person knows how to contact, is sitting on the bedside table, and Padmé--your angel, your _wife_ \--is calling you.

You scramble to your feet to check if you’ve locked the doors and then to reply, and you could almost cry when you see her, even in holographic blue. “Hey, Padmé,” you say. “I--Hey.”

Padmé frowns. “I heard,” she says, quiet. “About--Obi-wan. Ani, I’m so sorry.”

This, you think, is probably what it feels like when you get hit by a speeder, just with less broken bones. But the helplessness is the same. “Rex told you, huh,” you say, resigned.

“He’s worried,” says Padmé. “Are you all right?”

“Do you remember,” you start, voice cracking, “when--when it was my mom? And the Tuskens had her, and--and I--”

“I remember,” says Padmé, brows furrowing. “Anakin, love, what happened this time?”

“Droids,” you tell her. “But I think--if they’d been people, I’d have cut them all down, the same way.” Rex, you know, had to keep you _away_ from Cylo, and you’ve never been so proud of your captain before, somewhere past the rage at Cylo, for being indirectly responsible for Obi-wan’s fall. “We were--We were on a ship, and there was a hole in the hull, and he’d grabbed on to a railing and I was _so close_ , Padmé, I almost had him.”

“Anakin,” says Padmé, soft and sad.

“I almost had him,” you repeat, closing your eyes against the sting of hot tears. _All things die._ “ _I almost saved him._ ”

And that is what burns you the most: your fingers were just inches from his. If you’d been faster, if you’d been stronger, if you’d just had more time, you could’ve saved him.

You almost did.

“Oh, love,” says Padmé, and she sounds so sad. You want to touch her again, you want her to card her fingers through your hair and kiss your forehead and forgive you, though you don’t deserve the benediction. What kind of Hero with No Fear are you? What kind of _selfish_ bastard would want comfort, after he failed so badly? “You can’t save everyone.”

“I should’ve!” you say. “I didn’t--What good am I if I can’t protect everyone I love, everyone I vowed to protect? I couldn’t protect Mom, or Ahsoka, or Obi-wan, how can I--”

“I can take care of myself, Ani,” says Padmé, a little wryly, and it stops you in your tracks. “And about Obi-wan--he knew the risks, when he followed you, right?”

“I should’ve tried harder.”

“Don’t,” says Padmé, fiercely. “You can’t beat yourself up over it. Anakin, he made his choice when he came with you. He knew there was a chance he’d die, but he went anyway. Let him have the dignity of that choice.” She gives you a sad smile, reaches out a hand as if she can somehow reach across the galaxies and thread her fingers through your hair, hold you close, love you. “He damn well must’ve thought you were worth it.”

You nod. You don’t tell her this: that in the end, you think, that faith was what killed him.)

\--

The cantina is the exact sort of thing Ben tries his hardest to avoid, most days. It’s too crowded, too loud, too _everything_ , and it takes him a lot of effort to not turn right around and bolt out of there.

It helps that Tano’s there, eyeing him with no small amount of suspicion. Smart girl, he thinks, absently.

“So you don’t remember me?” she asks, quiet.

“Not very well,” he admits. “If it helps, I can hardly remember who I was, either.”

“But you remember Anakin,” she says. “At least, a lot better now.”

“The Count spoke about him,” he says. “Quite a lot, in fact. I’d tell you a sample, but I’m afraid my memory’s not the most reliable.” He shrugs, and says, “Beyond that, there isn’t much.”

Which is true. Most of what he has are fractured, fragmented memories, but the rest is a tattered, fraying bond between them that is still somehow whole, despite all that’s happened between them, all he’s done. He hasn’t brought himself to try and cut it off, yet, hasn’t even tried for all that he’d been trying to avoid Anakin Skywalker.

There are some things he can’t quite bring himself to do.

Tano is watching him, still, like a bird of prey. Something bubbles up, in the back of his mind--Tano, with a pair of mechanical wings, rising and diving with deadly precision. Tano, her eyes wide and disbelieving, looking up at the High Council.

A much younger Tano, craning her neck upwards and grinning up at him, her trusting eyes a bright, bright blue.

“You know,” says Tano, and he barely catches her voice over the noise around them, the people laughing and talking and making deals and drinking, “you look pretty terrible.”

“Would it surprise you to hear you’re not the first one who’s ever said that to me?” he dryly says.

“Not really,” says Tano, as they come up to a dimly-lit corner table. “Anyone with any kind of sight could see that.”

“Well, well,” says a familiar voice, and he glances to the table to see Bells’ canny eyes and knowing smile, lit by a faint blue light from her datapad. The galaxy, he thinks, cannot be _this_ small. “Look who the hawk dragged in.”

“Aww, thanks,” Maran says, sitting down beside Bells, their shoulders close enough to touch. “I love it when you call me pet names.”

Skywalker slides into the seat across from Bells, Tano squeezing in after him and leaving enough room for Ben to cram himself into. It’s not an optimal seating arrangement, he can count all the weaknesses in their positioning that someone could exploit, and it ties his stomach into knots.

Something blooms, in the back of his mind. It’s Skywalker, he realizes, pushing warmth and reassurance along their frayed bond.

_You’re far too confident,_ he sends back.

_Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve told me that,_ is Skywalker’s answer.

Bells is speaking, now, eyes flicking from the datapad in her hands to Tano and Skywalker every so often. “Empire Day--or rather, Empire _Week_ \--started a few days ago, so it’ll be tricky sneaking two known rebels in and out of the system and past the Star Destroyer currently sitting pretty above the planet,” she’s saying. “Doable, but not _easy_.”

“I can fake up a few credentials to get you past,” says Maran, picking up where her friend leaves off. “Though you might want to not stick together so much--separate arrivals should do, no one will connect two drifters who arrived days away from each other quite as easily.”

The Twi’lek waitress stops by their table, says, “All right, folks, what’ll you have?”

“Soup,” says Ben.

“Actually,” says Skywalker, producing a few credit sticks from his sleeve with a strangely familiar dramatic flourish, “we’ll have your house specials. Specials for the day. Whichever.”

“I was under the impression you were all broke,” says Bells, as the waitress leaves with a spring in her step.

“We kind of are,” says Tano. “We, uh. Have a contact who isn’t. And all.”

_Organa,_ Ben thinks.

_Hey, you remembered him?_ Skywalker’s voice, he realizes, and the man sounds surprised.

_Palpatine had him marked just in case,_ he sends back, and shuts off the connection as fast as he can before Skywalker can ask what he means. “I think I can manage a bowl full of soup,” he says out loud.

“You won’t have to,” says Skywalker. “You look _terrible_ , I’m just making sure the next strong wind doesn’t blow you over.”

“He does have a point,” says Maran, mildly, tilting her head and leaning forward, resting her arms on the table. “Did you cut your way out of a sarlacc pit, by any chance?”

“There aren’t any sarlaccs near me,” says Ben. “I know. I’ve checked.”

“Then why do you look like one chewed you up?” she asks. “You’re making me want to cry here. You’re making _Bells_ want to cry.”

“Boo hoo,” says Bells, her eyes dry and her tone flat. “I’m crying. Truly.”

“You couldn’t at least shed a tear?” Maran asks, and the both of them devolve quickly enough from there into good-natured bickering, the way old friends often do.

Skywalker, meanwhile, says, quiet, “Have you seriously been living off soup for a year?”

“I’m very good at flavoring it,” says Ben.

“You were never that good,” says Skywalker. “Me, on the other hand--I spent almost the first decade of my life on this dustball. I know a few recipes. I could teach you a few when we’re done here.”

“Don’t you have a job to do?” says Ben. “Children to go back to, a rebellion to help run?”

Skywalker huffs out a breath. “Yeah,” he says, looking a little dejected, and something in Ben’s heart twists, at the sight of Skywalker’s crestfallen face. _It’s for the best,_ he tells himself. “I guess.” He pauses, then says, quiet, “You could--You could leave. Come with us. You don’t have to meet the children, just--come with us.”

“No he’s not, what are you _thinking_ ,” hisses Ahsoka.

“She is right,” says Ben, and Skywalker’s face falls, his gaze darting away. “Thank you for the offer, but--I’ll stay here. The Emperor will be looking for me, and should I come with you I would just jeopardize everything you’ve worked for.” In more ways than one, he’s still not sure he can trust himself most days.

Skywalker opens his mouth, as if to argue.

“He is right, you know,” says Bells, mildly. “And, pro-tip: you boys should really have your heartfelt discussion somewhere else. A secret meeting at a corner table in a dusty cantina doesn’t really strike me as conducive to-- _feelings_.” Her mouth twists, her nose scrunches up, as if the very word itself smells unpleasant, but she’s still shoulder to shoulder with Maran, who turns to look at her with a brittle smile. “And besides, we should get moving.”

“Yeah,” says Maran, her voice a shadow of her earlier enthusiasm. “We do have things to do, and there’s talk of a sandstorm coming on.”

A _sandstorm_. Ben’s heard of how terrifying they can be, though he himself hasn’t had the misfortune of getting caught outside in one just yet--how the sand could strip flesh from bone in the space of seconds, from the force of the winds, how people went out into the sands and came back blind or missing a limb or worse, how some never came back at all.

He looks over at Skywalker once more, sees his terrifying stillness.

“We eat first,” says Bells. “Seal the deal and all. Then Maran and I will head back to the ship.” She props her chin up with her hand, the golden bangles falling to her elbow with a series of light clinks. “If anyone asks, we never saw you. _Any_ of you.”

“That’s all we want,” says Skywalker.

“That and a lot of other things,” says Tano.

\--

Bells and Maran leave for the docking bay once all their business is done, and Anakin’s turning the datachips they passed on to him over in his hand, half-planning out a route in his head already. He’ll have to adjust it once he knows what the situation’s like, but it’s nice to have at least a skeleton of a plan to follow on this one thing.

He activates his commlink, says, “Artoo, we’re done here, when can you come and--”

[ _I am very busy **kssss** to keep this piece of shit ship **kssss** king sandstorm,_] comes Artoo’s response, and Anakin winces at the high volume of Artoo’s angry beeping, coupled with the static. [ _I’m in a cave near Arch **kssssss** asshole of the galaxy, least there’s a **ksssss** and no bitch-ass golden--_ ]

It cuts out, with one last angry burst of feedback.

“What was that?” Obi-wan asks, startled. They’re on the outskirts of Mos Espa, and Ahsoka is squinting at something off in the distance, scowling unhappily at the twin suns and grumbling something about either the heat baking her alive or the cold freezing her to the ground.

“Artoo,” says Anakin. “We left him on the ship, and now--”

“We’re stuck, aren’t we,” says Ahsoka.

“Yep,” says Anakin, dread sitting in his stomach. Padmé’s not going to be happy about this. She wouldn’t have been happy about what he’d tried to do here, though, he supposes, especially when concerning Obi-wan.

Obi-wan, who is looking at the two of them now. “You can’t leave, can you,” he says.

“Artoo parked our ship in Arch Canyon,” says Anakin. “And apparently, the sandstorm just hit.”

Obi-wan’s quiet for a second. Then he sighs and says, “And I suppose you don’t have anywhere else to go?”

They could go looking around for shelter in cantinas, Anakin supposes, but if there’s anything his childhood here taught him about Tattooine, cantinas are the worst places to seek shelter in, especially from sandstorms.

Ahsoka says, “Not really, no. Why, you know somewhere?” There’s something wary in her tone, something deeply distrustful, and her hand keeps darting to where her ‘sabers should be, if they hadn’t left them on the ship.

Obi-wan lets out a breath. “Damn it,” he mutters softly, massaging his temples in a familiar gesture that tugs at Anakin’s heart, before he says, “I live in the opposite direction of Arch Canyon. You can stay with me until the storm passes, but once it does, you need to leave. I don’t--I _can’t_ \--”

He falters, the words failing to come. Maybe once Anakin would’ve laughed, to see his ever-witty friend reduced to speechlessness, but now he feels his heart break even more. What had _happened_ to Obi-wan, he wonders, to break him like this? What had happened to drag him so deep into the darkness?

Why hadn’t Anakin _known_?

He reaches out, wanting to take Obi-wan’s hand, touch him, tug him into a hug, but the second his gloved fingers brush over Obi-wan’s, the man flinches back.

“We should probably get going now,” says Ahsoka, breaking the painfully awkward silence that falls between them. “You know, before a sandstorm comes on us.”

“Yeah,” says Anakin, shaking himself out of his thoughts, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking away from Obi-wan. “Yeah, we--we should.” He pauses, then looks back at Obi-wan and says, “Hey, do you know old Jorny? Is he still there?”

“The one that rents old but reliable speeders out, yes,” says Obi-wan. “Why?”

\--

“ _Slow down! Slow down, you’ll crash and kill us all_ \--”

Anakin swerves left and says, “Have a little faith in me, you two. I used to race in worse conditions and in a pod made from scrap parts from my owner’s junk shop.”

“This is _not_ a race,” snaps Obi-wan, “and-- _watch out!_ ”

Anakin swerves sharply left. Ahsoka, in the backseat, lands on the floor with a thud and yells, “You raced in _worse_? How are you _not dead_?”

“The Force,” says Anakin, smugly.

Obi-wan mutters, “May the Force be with us _now_.”

“How long till we get there?” says Ahsoka, from the floor. “Also, Anakin, please don’t crash the speeder, it’s a rental and Bail and Padmé will kill us if you do.”

“Usually an hour, it might be a lot shorter at the rate Skywalker’s going,” says Obi-wan, gripping onto the door handle for dear life.

“Aw, thanks,” says Anakin, cheerfully.

“That wasn’t a compliment and you didn’t let me finish,” says Obi-wan, evenly. “It might be a lot shorter because _we might crash_.”

“Should’ve taken my chances with the sandstorm,” says Ahsoka. “Speaking of which, how long do they usually last?”

“The better part of a day, if not two,” says Anakin.

Obi-wan, beside him, says to himself, in a tone of utter resignation, “Oh, good, _two days_. Maybe--” He cuts himself off, huffs out a breath, and doesn’t say anything more.

It doesn’t stop Anakin from wondering, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next part: two days of gross domesticity and also, an appearance from Padmé! who is going to be somewhat peeved her husband got stranded on Tattooine in the middle of a sandstorm and left her with two babies who are probably also angry at their dad.
> 
> Anakin, you disaster.


End file.
